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July 23rd, 2005
r_maida
 | 01:12 pm - You know you do, you kill me well. You like it too, and I can tell.
Teach me what beautiful is. Guide me under your hands and show me the beauty of exposed skin, small finger shaped bruises that line my hips, pain that passes into pleasure with such subtle motions that I can sink into and drown before I realize I'm submerged. Show me your beautiful, a beautiful unlike anyone else's, because you can only be who you are, and your beauty can only be an extension of you.
Tear open your soul for me. Let it bleed over me and teach me your every pain and memory, your secret needs and softest places. Let me crawl inside you until the space you've given me fits like a second skin, until I belong in that soft place like no one ever has. Give me everything you are.
Rip me down the middle and find my secrets. Tease out my wants and the real me until I can't hide from you anymore and don't want to anyway. Dominate me, devastate me, leave me broken at your feet. Let me try to put my pieces together again or if you wish, reconstruct me. Run your fingers along every piece that fits unevenly. Live inside me until the loss will leave me never truly whole again.
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October 2nd, 2004
zdeschanel
 | 09:55 am
I spent a night turning in bed,
my love was a feather, a flat
sleeping thing. She was
very white
and quiet, and above us on
the roof, there was another woman I
also loved, had
addressed myself to in
a fit she
returned. That
encompasses it. But now I was
lonely, I yelled,
but what is that? Ugh
she said, beside me, she put
her hand on
my back, for which act
I think to say this
wrongly.
The Whip, Robert Creeley
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September 29th, 2004
marc_blucas
 | 03:50 pm
The world, for me, and all the world can hold
Is circled by your arms; for me there lies,
Within the lights and shadows of your eyes,
The only beauty that is never old.
- "Beauty That Is Never Old" by James Weldon Johnson
Current Mood:  happy
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August 1st, 2004
file_under
 | 11:26 pm - that's when the ceremony starts
the spark in his eye was sign he was alive
i cleaned his feet to be complete
i drank from the wine that came from inside
the heart of his meat and the splurge of his sweet
that's when the ceremony starts
i hold the cup to my breast as he wets my neck
there's a book and a blade then to alternate
think of the wing in his eyes and of suicide
with poppers blind, it's wedged inside
i beg and plead to be underneath
the man with bread who wakens me
he curls his breath and turns the dead
it winds inside to fertilize
that's when the ceremony starts
with a wreath and a sigh and a veil and a thigh
the comfort brief impure and sweet
to burn incense and break the bread
with honey spread, his warmth, his chest
he blushes and bleeds, he breathes then feeds
it was the spark in his eye was sign he'd survived
that's when the ceremony starts
it was the spark in his eye that was sign he'd survived
-- joel gibb (hidden cameras)
Current Music: that's when the ceremony starts -- the hidden cameras
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May 22nd, 2004
bobdylan_
 | 09:18 pm
My wet pet
a minnow
in the middle
a menudo
I'm a noodle
but I'm new though
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April 25th, 2004
ex_benmckenz958
| 02:41 pm - Consider this my intro or something.
It's the out-of-town affair with the made-for-tv-heart break hanging in the air.
And the one that's got good-byes with her fingers through his hair.
Skyline, motor rolling, gas meter is on empty, too fast paced for the masses, and obligatory promises broken for the long run.
Tangled up in frustration, and tied up with exhaustion: hand your forlorn heart to the one who fills the shoes of the one who said "I do" in an overcrowded room with the pressure reaching maximum and the clock ticking much too fast to keep it on slow paced.
So she's going to the dark side where the keys don't have an owner for the only one they know, and the walls are hearing broken records of the sins that go untold.
But now suspicion's getting closer and the fog is getting clearer with the picture now unfolding for the one who needs to know.
That you lost her to another, out of reach and now forgotten, reminisce of lies you told her when you said those filthy words.
Hang your head and let her lover take the place of the you forgotten who took the role of battered husband who couldn't handle the demands.
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April 16th, 2004
kkreuk
 | 08:49 pm
constellanic and Shakespearen.
they're going through the chapels
and talking in tongues about the architects.
take one and two and three.
reading these words from some sheet
singing the song, the song you hear
in your head. or was it your heart.
remember the Scrabble marathons
and the notes you left on my pillow.
I'd curse your name in German achtung
and remember the casts. of track in
disilluded Pleasantville. that
you wanted to piece together like
a mystery of history.
and at the end of Orion's hunt
the day breaks into a million pieces
for your retina pleasure only.
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April 7th, 2004
sheryl_crow
 | 08:03 pm
Due to some recent random events, I was reminded of a few poems I stumbled across. They are somewhat amusing and inspiring and the imagery is stunning, as well as the message behind the words. Both are by Billy Collins. Enjoy!
( PurityCollapse )
( Advice to WritersCollapse )
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March 3rd, 2004
garfunkel
| 07:24 pm - Waters of March
A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone,
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush,
The wood of the wing, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone,
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night,
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain.
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart.
These are not my own words. This is a song that was written for my album Breakaway by a man named A.C. Jobin.
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February 12th, 2004
kkreuk
| 07:44 pm
in cerebellum recesses
and pieces of the unconscious
are the most honesty you'll ever know
detagged by words
dragged down by the wise
through and through the chambers
of consciousness arrive
unknown unaware unspoken
broken breaking to survive.
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