Yesterday I heard, through bleaming paper and speakers like a thorax, how Buckowski never enjoyed letters. How they would never make him feel better; feel better about clutching a full, whiskey botttle inside and empty room; how frustratingly un understandable they were, from waiting so long under the rain, without an envelope, like undressed African…
The moon was bleeding when vacation started When vacation started, when vacation started, vacation started. It must have rained empty, owl shaped, money-boxes The wind was some fake, commercialized, love song, a wrong belief for a tabooed romance. I was a sheep, blindingly entering a slaughterhosue I was a foolish foal, following any pack after…
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery–isolation. Isolation…
Dedicated to Scott Sanders- Beloved teacher, friend and principal, who will be leaving Guatemala to the eternally faraway, Imperial land of China. Dear Mister, Why don´t you take a look through such a sight? You will see the shining in all our eyes, beaming for your igniting light, which shall stay in your throne…
Everyone comes here to escape- Freedom! Seeking the sun, which stands so low- The thrill of winning a gamble. Reflections of palm trees in a hundred dollar bill. I think of home, and for this city I bleed I think of home, and I hear these stories told, under low buildings. It gets used-…
There was a dubious decker letter on my door. It read: let me mend you my friend, meet me in the circus. However, there was no show when I searched your light, but instead, a site of such justified ripping of my joy. The grass below said, run as fast as you can,…
Originally posted on Flavorwire:
By and large people who like The Smiths indulge most heavily in listening to their music during “the sad years,” the time stretching from the self-conscious teen era to that point in your mid-20s when you start making enough money to properly support yourself. The problem with going overboard on listening…
Henry Ford Hospital, by: Frida Kahlo, 1932 If I were to have a child, let it be a son, a dog, a blogging crow or a bedside instead. I would not have her be like my grandfather, either way. I would not have him pretend to be a romantic poet, not even Bysshe…
Mrs. Daisy, the screen brings no good ones, a messenger leaving a notebook of sole yearnings, scraped by thorns of abandonment. Mrs. Daisy, curtains were being pushed opened towards the dawn of a start- LIES! I didn´t see the sun´s release, shining, Mrs. Daisy, a temporary eclipsing of my undyingly decaying shining.…
Never thought I´d slowly grow drained of seeing the hazy lights of this bright city, after having pondered between two gateways. All this time, I eluded the lamentable passersby, minding to always repel away the plane ticket. Under the whispering, unmoving silent stars, which twinkled away my adulterous laments, I packed my regretful…
I lay beneath and within these cold, cold tiles, (Like this opened heart of mine, smoldering into age.) wondering how a star, being all things to all, can weave such dark work inside enclosed constellations. Under this roughly opened, starry sky, (enveloped as this abandoned present, daily keeping us alive,)…
