Her eyes are elevators
They stay pointing up
Upside down they make
A chalice drawn from a cup
Two lines joined
Like a bird feather upturned
And I’m still not part of
Her world.

when I watched her walk in the garden, I was suddenly unafraid of my own thoughts ( Read more... )

where did you come from? when you stepped into the night with a black mane of hair?

There were a thousand light bulbs suspended around us in their own empty, idiosyncratic motions, left from some careless hands’ rotation. They appeared to be nervously moving in their own circles, like some bastardized version of the solar system, somewhere we could finally find ourselves in without a battery acid-like guilt ( Read more... )

when i woke her up, she didn't immediately realize she was still being fucked ( Read more... )

their lovemaking was a cacophony of sounds, a thousand loundscapes spontaneously appearing next to one another; grainy desert landscapes with small splashes of shrubbery giving rise to sunken skyscrapers lowered like bashed in vertabrae. It was the sound of knives and pistons. It was a violence not out of a hatred for one another, but of the ( Read more... )

You always swung on that long trapeze, that suspended enclosure of glass which ballooned out your facial expressions to a wide-angled awe ( Read more... )

Im starting to see an almost religious significance in daily things ( Read more... )

we assembled in the usual place, because - where else would we feel comfortable to be together? (this has and will be a part of us at all time. Usual ( Read more... )

its just work. its just business. it has nothing to do with the creative sphere that we interact upon everyday.