Litany (Of Sorts)

July 31, 08
This is a short disclaimer,

This is utter bull shit I don't really recommend reading because it has absolutely no purpose rather than for a place for my little half heart ed rant. It never gets to anything and complains about things I don't believe in and is mostly just a ramble. At least for the readers it is for the enjoyment of knowing you, yourself, are sane.

Lucky you.

Where the " * " is present it will mention a persona Dante (if you don't know who he is I suggest you start reading...his work obviously, not this). I recently am reading Dante Inferno for the story purely not so much for the biblical of love and god ---and I already just bored myself beginning to go into the philosophy of it. I just like the imagery so I suggest you don't (If you've read Dante) try to start a discussion with me for whatever reason you'd think I'm intelligent enough to keep up. I'm bored.

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It started as a thought. Then it was erased and I had to start all over because my memory was terrible and I couldn’t recall the magic that it was brought either. Then it became words. Yes, it may seem odd but the thought was before the words because the thoughts aren’t made of words. They are more like colours. But they aren’t really colours but I’ll call them that because they need a label from our all too human world and colours is as close as it gets.

Then those colours get stirred, woven, perhaps by the breeze or music. And I’ll have a word. This might have meaning, though it will be erratically bold or insanely stupid, it’ll pierce like a wound you didn’t know how you got. It was too quick for the eye but too painful to be a lie, this painfully single word. Then it becomes more, it becomes a sentence. Once a sentence I’ll almost call it a writing, I’d call it a poem if it were more that beautiful but it isn’t and it’d be a crime to call something so dull something so meaningful. After all I’m far too normal and nothing is of mine is worth chiselling on the rock by a screwdriver and hammer. It was not even enough for the graffiti shouting out to “Change the Fucking World” on the dumpster behind the church.

So instead, I wrote it by the rain, but I swear to you I wrote it by that water which was pure from the heavens… or more likely came from the pollution from our own lakes and rivers of lies and poured down to purge us all. In ways, it was nothing, but it was going to be everything and what we wished that we would have nightmares of.

*Dante has damned Myself and All, each shadow of the lily not forgiven for stealing the nectar from the trees before it. A place in the multitudes of storage areas inside of Hell to be whipped, rained upon by fire, and be crucified…All in the name of our ill side of nature. What God makes balance with no relinquish for the punishments of our own self … Our forced upon Sins. For he made us that way… Maybe he just wanted us to make lemons and become a giant lemon pie. Something we all would end up loving, despite that we’d (again) end up dying because our bodies cannot function on its not tolerably overly tolerable sweetness.

Who sees it would love and all who sees me I love. Did I begin to mention that? I love what I’ve made myself, and all who look upon me without their burning eyelids. Then I try to look into my soul and the watery substance. Then I realize it isn’t like water, it is more like air. Then the air is more like nothing. Nothing at all. I guess I hate myself brutally as well. So selfish is this vanity of mine that I’ll smash every mirror while chipping my skin to hang framed in my dark cellar mind. More or less formerly known as my room. I’ll create each beast in justified memories and stories given to me. Yet I’ll let myself be gnawed on by their teeth that I personally brushed life times earlier. Every memory and every sin that made me who I was and that made me human for every mistake-I’ll rub fire against my skin, thinking Hell wasn’t too bad but too many people made it out alive according to folklore and more.

Moon (S)wept

July 17, 08
The sun maned by dark receding clouds,
Surrendering a last dismal pulse of sky,

Thunder-
Following the footsteps of man travelers,
God's dismay looking down at their woes,
By the bleak clouds that outline the eye.
Burning into sockets the searing of Life.

And accident of shattered elegant vases,
Explode begging to implode to be again,

Falling-
Rain creates shapes into the crystal,
When touched sounds the weeping boy,
Tied up face down dragged to his demise,
Guardian demons savoured his dried blood.

Because his eyes cried harder near them,
Because he dirtied his pants in fear too,

Accident-
He was just a life lost in the hurricane,
His blood trail longer than any joy,
The colours of ice which made his soul,
Melt like his grip against a carved cross.

Saturation

July 10: I was in a hurry when this was written, therefore the quality lacks a bit, and sorry for any large grammar or spelling errors. I didn't go through this as I would have liked.

The paradox holds and lets fall-
The hope spread from demons,
Equal to all the despair to fight.
Swords within the lances of spite.

Anorexia feeds the hungry eyes,
Starving to live in the other lie,
To burn out while filled and engulfed,
But they'll never be strongly satisfied.

I don't see beauty within coal fire,
But within my sooted eyes it lays,
Cover me in blankets of thorns,
Which will fend off the cold-

By piercing and invoking blood flow,
I'll die again holding the flower,
From the bording fence I met and climbed,
And fell from after plucking the hope.

Relocated

July 7, 08

Extra adornment, blood on the mirror,
Spilled from babies' vein on left wrist,
Potentially distressful-but not quite,
Smear it away with alcohol and smoke,
And you'll never have a sleepless night.

Your sins are justified if there is no law,
But the end is jagged wood and rocks,
Peeling your skin and harboring your eyelid.
Potentially your abortion meant nothing,
You cannot be burdened with your sins.

Through their thoughts they can't think,
Clouded by the evasive touch and perfume,
Bitter cold biting hard enough into your sinew,
That you realize snow doesn't keep you warm,
And your careless laugh and wiles mean nothing-

To the guilt of the roughly taken and given,
The fetal who cannot mask their cries,
And whose cries where too much for you.
Mistress, you can govern men but not mistakes,
And not a curse which lies dead within you

Curving

July 3, 08

Butterfly dust wafts softer than the sun tears,
Evaporating from the leaking heat of skin.
Lithe movements freeze as a still shot even after-
The gravity bows down to her movements again.

Imagery flows into prominent to fading colours,
Black and white until the flowers weep again,
And spill the secrets of life into the rivers and lakes,
To spread the shades among the stars and eyes.

Then with coming bruises upon the very core,
The very bottom of her soul she caves in again,
Fades her imaginary to the pitch of black and white,
And bends her knees to sleep upon the ground.

Flowers wilt and the creeks stop flowing,
Shadows send tendrils around her battered limbs,
The chilling comfort of night surrounds her tears,
And echoes offer the conversations she desires.

~And Until The Clock Strikes Twelve~

All for more like one time seen in a blink of an eye,
And though the bottom of her soles may bleed red,
It never hurts as she dances among the burnt leaves,
For eternity of time she has eternity