I'm wide awake, it's morning.

Look! Look! The universe is exploding everywhere! Wedging it's infinite self into every breathing cell We are walking testimonies to eons of being In my spiralling nerves you could find anything: Countless dreams undreamt, all tiny Granules of what could be color The unobtrusive strum of vocal cords Communicates so much wholenesd... & with such clarity! Live, my friend. Live. Never to forget that we , in the very deepest of truths Are all gods.

not in kansas anymore.

&i thought i'd never leave.
in fact, i was moreso hoping i wouldn't.

i suppose my comfort zone
grew
stretching branches outwards
[not upwards]
and intruding into unwilling soil
planting my feet in one pose
arms held as still as bark

haunted.

gentle
painful vibrations
rattle the cobwebs
caught in the eyes of the house

dust gently parts between rotting floorboards
and ectoplasmic fingertips
disturb the crooked picture frames

the nameless faces hold their gaze

the weight of this presence weighs steadily
upon an unstable foundation
and the frames sigh
in a soft frustration
shifting the wooden structure

without a spirit
it remains
just a house

but the eventual cracking of beams
fogs up every cracked window
so it disintegrates in its pa[i]n[e]
crumbling in fear

and i know you will break me
suck dry the electricity lingering in my walls
little of which remains

without you
my tangibility will become
terribly too obvious

but at least there will be something left.

crystal clarity.

fine & sculptured
rounded fingertips
cold.
cold like my hair standing up
pushing my muscles.

go faster.

my eyes shine open
an iridescent blue

contrasting the
one murky green
that made them:
swamp eyes.

listless & lethargic

suddenly fall victim to
a tsunami of energy
infusing the iris
with the realisation:

your time here is short...
stunted by the
finite lifespan
given to me so lovingly
by a god who never knew
another's love

He lingers
omnipresent
wishing to be loved
so personally
not by masses
all to willing to worship Him
without getting to know Him

they say
He will give himself to you
if you let Him.

prayer hands are touched so tenderly
together
closed off

&He cannot feel your p[s]alms.

we have the option
of understanding
but we never exercise the will

we lock our doors & hope
opportunity will knock
instead of seeking it ourselves

fifteen year olds carry children with their burdens
and aspiring artists stunt their visions
with chemical doubt.

the prodding continues

i have a job
i am a professional human being.
i act out my profession well

the only funny thing about it is,
the people i feed are rarely hungry

where is the justice in that?

i return to a nice apartment
which i can't fathom calling home

but i am not without shelter.

i will always have arms in which to keep warm
blankets under which to hide

who is the lucky one here?

the moral of the story:
stop complaining.

in which a jealous & ill informed lover destroys a monument.

something put together
so simple &
unintrustive

&it lies in pieces
but not so noticable
to where fingers
grabbed onto it so suddenly

the scraps
they should still bear
dusty fingerprints

&lack any remaining hope
of a healing bit of tape
or care of the most humble artist

the first time learnt.

a smooth palm tree chest
&leaf green eyes
always synonymous with summer
&driving slowly to nowhere

legs speckled with sunbleached hair
&muscles lazily flexing
while letting off the brakes

i couldn't touch you if i tried
a memory
hidden beneath an aging shell

&you bought me packs of marlboros
when i was too young

drinking wine in a playhouse
where i learned that sometimes
eagerness is
[not]
a crime

not when the warm night
hugs the trees
under which
he held together
tracing
each other's jawlines with drunk fingertips
&making promises we were both too naive
to know would never keep

i was too young.

you, too gone.

skywards.

still silent water.
lethargic, rotting wood
naps half submerged
not bothered to exhale
murky liquid
and i
stand as a monument
attesting to nothing less
than deterioration
of something once
overjoyed
to tilt a browning face
skywards

title for two.

2006.

2007.

2008.


title for two. [or, the farewell richard helton poem]

cigarettes & too much booze
we never had a thing to lose
black eyeliner & cute boys
we'd stay up late & make some noise
little red pills, a line or three
my best friend you'll always be
remember the time we took the photos
in the burnt down dilapotato?
or when we went to wal mart tripping balls
& i sat there and talked to the wall
or when i was super down & sad
and my depression made you mad
you told me to shut the fuck up
and then with rum you filled my cup
you're good at beer pong & cutting hair
and getting to see straght boys' underwear
remember when we were old ladies
& talked about being old & dead babies
or that one time we stayed up all night
&that guy tried to sell us a fucking flashlight
or your 21st birthday i almost blew it
but thankfully i got you a boy named rumit
even though you gave my boyfriend a kiss
it will be you that i will miss
no one else will know what the fuck i mean
when i turn and grin & say "moose arent beans"
we've grown up now... kinda... & must go into the world
but hopefully we'll still always be 14 year old girls
and now you're going, i can't believe
but like hpv,
you'll never really leave...

cos i love you&
i'll miss you rocko fabulous!

daisy water.

&again my dreams will not stop
unlikely situations playing & replaying
in my thoughts.
&me, for the first time
playing the liar
the thief
the breaker of bodies
[& my own skin]
&regret.
[oh my dear, the regret]
although love in generally forgiving
mine, for you, stitches together
my disgusting wound of a heart
with a ten mile needle.
opening old scars
renewing the screaming agony of nerves
&starting to bleed all over again.

you made me safe.
the tighter you held me
the more paranoid i became
because the more i knew you
the more i loved you
&the more you could hurt me...
...
so i hurt us both
&now i could die a million times
&hurt just the same.

why the fuck did i do this

&the past is not interchangable
&it hurts.
because my jealousy
&fear
&everything else a father could have given
his daughter
ended me... you...we...
a bird should not escape its cage
if it has previous clipped its own wings
my fear & love of being kept in your heart
turned to wood & nails
&each day is a resurrection
more painful than the last
the greatest shame for my pen to
touch to paper
is that even death may be a blessing
second only to your forgiveness
&it kills to me realise...

death is tenfold more likely.

je suis très desolée.
je te manque... et je t'aime... je pense, en plus d'avant je suis partie.
parce que je suis en fait le votre.

liber tea.

i laid my weapons down
&expected the earth to come to a halt
so i could step off & learn
what it should mean to live
underneath the sand
i heard the echoes of voices
which have long since escaped vocal cords
now lying in a disheveled heap
crumbling beneath numb fingers.

to die is to unclench your fists
& explode into a life-full fury
the freedom that burns nearby stars
&causes the moon to raise up
galaxy-encrusted hands to her eyes
shielding herself from the whiplash.

through the confines of everything mortal
i am only permitted
to write such things.

son of a bosch.

original painting by h. bosch:


colour scheme:


finished piece:


for 2-D design ART103
-a. sanjari

sorrow. [no more]

the mood strikes
&everything seems more & more fucked up
closer to reality
or further away.
i have no authority whatsoever to distinguish between the two.

the world doesn't run on a merit system.
a good thing, the best thing has happened to me.
do i deserve it?
absolutely not.

before i even knew how to sin in any shape & form
stability unraveled from below me
quietly
i never even heard myself hit the bottom.

zoom back in.
a room.
locked door.
tearing at myself.
bloodshot eyes.
the.
clock.
ticked.
so.
loud.
i.
wanted.
to.
die.
it dawns on me now.
that the reason that happened is because i did do a lot of bad things.

&i continue to torture myself in their place.
[?!]

how many children are out tonight?
the possibilities tear at me like
car windows obliterating at 80 mph.

i dream about needles & smoke
&sad eyes in empty sockets
my eyes in my face.
crawling with swollen blood vessels.

if one can even call that dreaming at all.

the grotto.

tiny souls waver still
between the act of being alight
&exploding softly into smoke
stolen away by the night's gentle
inhale.
silent kept embraces:
the collecting flame of letting go
&holds it in careful hands
until you
a solitary bystander
takes it in to humble pores

something as universally
disfiguring as
mortality
takes on a candle's glow
while a worn & pale virgin
[shrouded, yet unignored]
weeps upon torn enwspaper
faded ink
&dried flower rosaries

line 01. [animation]

[incomplete37/60 frames]

not satisfied...
but am i ever?

despite this...
i feel rather bright today.

tweak.

'they say
this is the city
the city of angels
all i see are dead wings'
[-thedistillers]

line01.

and it makes me wonder...
which line am i?

mary undone.

you are my fingers

tugging at my scalp

a burning ache

soothed only by the

loveliest

of sin

you are my own skin

beneath my fingertips

extracted out of sheer

exhaustion

frustration

love.

it does not interest me.

not as much as the slightest notion-

[slippery like a nesting eel]

-of your hand beneath my flesh.

seethrough.

i woke up & realised
he stole my colour
the very hue
from my irises

the sun marched though my window
keeping both its rays
&the rain in meticulous order
my pillows had turned to
a solid-esque air
&i was smaller &younger
&now better off

[because santa carla is worlds away]

his mouth danced more than his
narrow hips
&feathered feet
&i couldn't stare behind him
in a coyly indifferent fashion

[the way i often do]

our skin whispered beside one another
embracing liquids
whie be breathed smoke into my hair
much so that i thought
i would soon disappear

the.art.of.letting

with your permission
i am going to hide.

from you.

& your chemical eyes.
you once laughed & noticed the matching hues.
[not at all true]
now you have nothing off which to reflect the colour.

because i am making you disappear.
& i can step outside the house
maybe even without prison wall sunglasses
keeping out any words which would subsequently
spell out
your name.

but.
with every sacrificial cigarette
the burning nubs scream out for you.
& i can't seem to stop coughing until the smoke clears entirely.

& i'm left with a brand new mirror.
smudging white fingertips across my paling lips.
am i dying already?
was my life really only worth
violence.
false longing.
the occasional fuck.
addiction.
your worth as well.

which consists of every lie you've ever breathed.
& whispered your love outside of a broken home which shelters a broken girl with a broken mouth
[what would you have said if she could have heard?]

you would have told me a hug.
i would have driven away.
knowing that your cobalt blue
was one step away from being gone.

'i will be inside the one who holds you.
...& then i won't be"

Credits: DeviantArt for Photography & Francesca Lia Block for Quotation [from Wasteland].

7th street revisited.

gone is the illusion
which clouded just how
wooden the walls really are
&how the doors are but cheap
plastic&nails.

the carpet which once burned
in a frenzy of shared breathing
&the fusion of warm, young skin
lies bored & useless under tired
chairs --- of which there is one fewer.

somehow time

[&the loss of you]

gently murdered the
"make yourself at
home" that was before.