Passing The Gates.
"My love, my love is not the enemy." - Bright Eyes.
Haiku #1.
The resonating
Silence, no one waiting for
An answer tonite.
Warm, warm Christmas.
My skin sacred by blizzards,
The heat in my veins blessed huzzah!
Is it a crime?
Dot.
Dot.
Dot.
Gunshot.
Gunshot.
Love's prostitutes! To
The Sun's burning echoes
Heat sucking our souls in
Growling loins and
This haunting nausea
Sinkinsickin.
Every one embraces difference
And everyone ends the same.
Two days prior leaving, albums by: Radiohead, Portishead, Elliott Smith, Pink Floyd, PJ Harvey, Fiona Apple, Björk, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Pedro The Lion, Blonde Redhead, Baxter Dury, Counting Crows, Eisley, Damien Rice, Keren Ann, The Cure, The Smiths, Sineàd O'Connor, The Faint, Tori Amos, At The Drive-In.
Ever since returning: Bright Eyes. As of now, their Four Winds EP and Cassadaga album are the only things I'm looking forward to. I can't stop listening to the new song.
Stayed several days at my mom's, enjoying her presence and her randomly flat tree with dollie decorations and mistletoe -candles and Christmas lights. Christmas was good. My brother and grandparents and this certain intimacy; wrapping paper and not smiles, grins. Love softening, maybe. Eternal gold drippings. It sped by in slow motion: I smoked little, layed dreaming, slept in, ate a lot and spent most of my Time in front of the television, digesting great and terrible movies. Morning came and my mother ran a bath for me, lit candles in the bathroom with a kiss, a cup of coffee and an ashtray. And my veins swelled. I've been feeling sound and distant, like I have all the potential I could ever need. It makes train rides seem quicker. But somewhere in my head, trouble seems to be fumbling. Winter with its cold and steaming cups -its odd pained stains on my memory. This year has been strange but came and went without much of a fight; new and old mingled, unearthed secrets and incredible glass walls. And those white walls, white fumes, white noise and white hearts. Crimson footsteps, lecherous eyes, demanding lips. Stories and headpoems and lots and lots of paint -being scared of words and burning so bad, so hard. So numb, again. Change is a tricky master, one of Arthur's best friends but Evan keeps its versatile muse on tiptoes and I'm not expecting anything. If seven is to be lucky, then let it coat my wings. I guess beauty and human sorrow eventually wiped at some of my nihilistic tendencies, numerous or one-talk stands made me want more or less. I've got itchy blood but it's okay, it's life, it's what, it's alright. As long as the road goes on and the sky is above our heads, it can't be just a dead-end.