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.

home. [or something like it]

with you.

those few but perfect minute-long fragments

of time.

your fingertips curled

gently

into my back.

i realised now

your eyes are the same colour

as mine.

so when they meet

they stay cautiously still

examining their twin pair.

the dandylion chains

were made because i was happy

that

you are still inside your body.

trapped beneath your grief

because you use nicknames

you gave me

eons ago...

...&you still smile the same.

"another moment

there always is

as time stands still

&always is this..."

[anniversary - the cure]

brighton.in.flames

the beach was black that summer night
we were staring at the sea

you turned to talk & found me laughing
what fools we mortals be

the buildings soared above our heads
the wind blew off the sea

the flames were silent when they came
they warmed us---you & me

the pier-it shook with wooden might
& cast shadows on the sea

i held your hand---you touched my hair
i trembled at the knee

the city fell like Babylon
& crashed into the sea

we witnessed this but we stood still
just the embers, you & me

brighton fell that fateful night
and debris graced the sea

yes, she fell with pride and grace
and with her, so did we

[but we still]

whisper of summer, salt & flame
while buried by the sea

-a.sanjari.

[for d.h]

his hands
must have shaken
yesterday
beads of sweat may
or may not have
clustered
around his eyes.

one hand
outweighed
the other:

lead weight

maybe he heard shouting
maybe it was his
maybe it was quiet
maybe :

he was still

he hurt more
[than us]
more
than melodrama
allowed

RIP Derek Paul Hicks.
22 January 1983-2 April 2007
you will be missed.

in which he curled his fingers through my hair long enough for me to notice

i wish i could find a tone
nonchalant enough to tell you
how much i wish you'd never
have let go.
in such a casual manner
to where the words would
strike you but i would hear
no verbal counter.
to where you'd wonder
how much of you is
still inside of me & dare
to ask.
after which i would reply
the tide does not vanish
seaside stones but turns them to
glittering sand.

Credits: Dave April for Photography

the.meaning.of.life

wet grass brushes my ankles in
an attempt to wash off guilt
from my supporting features.

he asked with his hands if i liked
to hurt. i said "yes mister but make it
quick. i have appointments to keep."

sunrises & pollutants go hand in
hand. it only makes sense that which is
capable of beauty is capable of murder.

-28 march 2007-

Credits: Dave April for Photography.

santa carla revisited

SLAM!
right into the wall behind me
your letter cracked the tar and brick
and leaked words into a puddle
dripping like black hole pores
you are still there
meddling in my tear ducts
watering down the concrete
i used to construct myself
and fucking with the pipes
tearing down the rooftops while i
sleep and smear raindrops across my face
you are always surrounded by a bay of
doubt but sure enough
the current is one tough bitch
and your smile reminds me
of seaweed between my fingertips
[i think i spoke that once]
you injected colour into
my poloroid form
rudely bringing out the green
when i insisted it wasn't necessary
and smearing your faithful
"you say this you do that" bullshit
all over my angora carpet

well i've missed you,
you cocksucker piece of shit.

until.

you left in a wave of soil
scattering doubt & salt
beneath the roots on my Gethsemane
turning the green to gray
the action of
pushing stalks against the
surface of ground
drains my fingertips of warmth

feverishly i strive
for indifference
but will you ever call again?

spiders & inquiries
scamper up & down my spine
& creep over my shoulders
sinewy legs brush my cheek & my
mouth then traces the shape of
your name in the dry, dry air

a saline taste haunts my teeth
& stray curls are still nestled
between my floorboards
hiding from my temporary distain

like an April bird to a
familiar nest-Home
i will return to you
bearing the fruits of my forgiveness
in exchange only for a new found
honesty
which will this time
lower itself
gently
against my ears

nor are we.

the sounds from my speakers
echo the ongoing struggle of Moving On

i knew the casulties would understand
i imagine how their mouths would twist

baring their teeth
into the classic sneer

at the false
sincerity i have witnessed

i have to now learn to speak with
the utmost sarcasm when i turn to

him and say in a tin can voice
your opinion matters to

me and while you're at it
get your clothing out of my sight

because your memories aren't welcome
here anymore

i have so much for him to take
gently into his splintered hands

in the way of things i feel which he
should bear witness to but the absence

of his company is more of him
right now than i can take