Will this be the year you die
I only ask
So I can plan ahead
To be inconvenienced
who would choose the fate of fire
the apathy of plunge
blade for blood
in the face of death
some of us shine
brighter
as if destruction was our calling
in life
I had a wet dream last night
I woke up with a little slobber on my face & pillow
I had a good girl’s dirty dream
I dreamt of deep kisses and attraction
Not the s-e-x (I’m a virgin you know)
But the satisfaction of wanting more,
that’s the xxx I want
Tonight I break my silence. This is my open letter to you.
You will always be remembered as a vapor
the heat-wet rising to fog the mirrors,
blurring distinction:
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw you, too.
But that’s not true
I saw a mirage and what I wanted to see
Last I looked I saw nothing ajar, nothing amiss.
Sentimentality is lost on the broken-hearted.
You fog me no more.
A few years later
I’m ready to revisit
the statement I made
years earlier
People with January 2nd birthdays die and I do not fear for their deaths.
Truth is
people with January 2nd birthdays
lie.
the blank eye of the black dog has me in its crossways gaze
Winston Churchill referred to his recurring bouts with depression as his “black dog.”
I don’t think I’m depressed. But is that what the black dog wants me think?
I don’t think I’m depressed; I’m just boring.
We should all follow sage advice and here it is: A dear friend said via Facebook today that she was going to make 2012 her bitch. Friends, let’s do the same. Take whatever gripes you’ve got, give them a last look, and throw them out like weeds. They aint the bitch of you and they’ll just have to get on.
My last post of 2012, last outpost, ahead images: fuzzy and distant as the wind.
It’s much too dark for going
It’s much too early for a new start
The year is much too much new for this new year shit:
Why wasn’t the old year good enough to fuck up without needing a new one too?
Why weren’t you good enough to make last year’s point?
Another year goin’ to do to you what you did to it. Last post, fuzzy and distant as a bitch, much too much shit.
Sun dreams! You are naughty, wakeful spiteful dreams!
Leaving no trace but a whisper, a whisper
Uttered by those who know but stranger to the one whose fate is sowed
In sun dreamed dreams
No, Mr. Poe, it was not the beating of a heart. It was the human trappings of wood chippings. The creator, O Pinnoccio, where has he gone!
Your Sympathies: