March 31, 2004

They can’t deny you were here.
Hold the scar.
She needs a good drowning lesson.
Medicate her fears, trap her in the spiralling well of despair.
And fuck you.

Say this world is not so shallow.

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March 25, 2004

I hate you.

That’s not your real name.

moron

.

What if you see me alive?
\clip/
On the cusp of a fingernail breakdown.
|These are the faces|
I know you know.
[Ready to give up the fight]?

March 21, 2004

Untie me.
You fucking traitor.
Sit there, stare at me, a relished token of your nonaffection.
I’m not your fucking fallen angel.
I am not your toy.
Tell me lies.
I’ll lay down and wrap them ’round me like robes of silk.
Just stop talking. No touching.
Leave the room.
Make me feel like I am real.

Life is much to short to be intoxicated.

March 15, 2004

Lost in too much translation,
over analised
Stop.
Senses aroused and your mind is a fluttering mess of neurons,
screaming let me out.
Found a penny. Dust explosions wrote a future
of failure.
Pristine plastic heads,
nails in the eyes.
Just
once
more.
The pills were left unswallowed.

March 14, 2004

Sharp tang, rust of blood.
slipping through the fingers,
staining innocence and belief.
try to understand this.
What are you talking about?

There is nothing you can do.
This is insane.

No. It’s perfectly normal.

Bleed
me
to
perfection.

March 14, 2004

Sipping at teas, fingering through words.
A small pleasure, a relief. Is is really that fucked up?
Avoid the red cliche.
It’s nine in the morning and you’re stuck in the basement,
clawing away every affection and effect you’ve ever had.
Slight a silloughette, a blur of nonsense
grab it like gloves,
slip in on like a shadow.
Suitable situations, shallow in truth,
intollerable intoxication, intricate wounds
decorating the deformed and malformed enigma
of
your
mind.

March 12, 2004

sketch a scar,
searing flame into the hand.
knife blades, tiny shards of skin.
Peel me off, drown this in the blood.
Marninating in the choices and thoughts of the day.
Nothing was ever so perfect
as
that
one
cut.

March 11, 2004

I’d follow you drowning,
counting sand grains like the stars.
Lack of stars leads to dangerous, cancerous nightmares.
leukemia and paranoia will soon follow.
Touching me will only bring lashes and blood from you.
your words are nothing against my knives and bloodless emotions.
Run your mind, not your hands.
think your actions, love. your mind will work.
Want some oil with that?
She looked over her shoulder and saw nothing but the same
dark shadow following her like usuall.
She kept walking.
It followed, a hand stretched out in anticipation of a pause.
She wanted to be pushed.

March 10, 2004

Pathetic.
A promise, yes. A promise.
Never kill yourself, I promise dear mother.
She looked down the slope of the cliff and wished she had a sled.
flying was never easy and jumping made her head twist.
There were two bottles sitting on the table, one rattled the other sloshed.
Ignoring the sloshing one, she grasped the rattle, and, walking like a toddling two year old, proceeded to take one and fall into a sleeping stupor.
She wakes.
the evening is lost in a dark blanket,
her face is lost and her eyes make no sense.
Simple sayings,
slammed into skin, scarring.
Plastered promises and pristine plasticine.
It’s not prosthetic surgery.

March 8, 2004

Pistols at dawn.
Seven colour banner, streaming from the sky.
Sign me out, sign me off.
Crawling through this. Sludge of dream.
Dragging nothing more than irrational sorrows, she looked back and realised that the sun had set and her sins had set her body on fire.
The smoke was oily and warm, a blanket she wrapped ’round her shaking figure.
Five tylenol and one sleeping pill. she’ll be alright.
she’s dead.