ballerina
When our bodies are filled with smoke, we don't bother paying atention to the easily capricious forces that might change our shape too fast.
We take one large breath in and hope to exhale away all who surround us.
I can't help but look at people's faces, x'd out, and wonder how they didn't notice themselves being blinded.
I believe in love, I believe in coming back from a point too dismal to qualify, and yet those simple forces don't seem enough
to combat a sea of apathy. Acres of concerete, shoved together and huddled into semi-stacked living complexes.
Curled bodies wrapped in silk litter the hallway, careful not to upturn their face to show the gored holes centering their brilliant faces.
Their eyes glitter like lead caught under the skin, their potential reaches so far into the future they can't bear to live in the present.
It seems too backwarded, too prehistoric, to love one another so openly and so brazenly. Like living underground and resurfacing only to see people no longer using sex as a means to reproduce: an entire community based on touch no long being necessary.
Touch the walls and they become a hall of mirrors; try to touch us and touch them and touch yourself - its only the good company of a few voices inside your head.
Life should be inside all of us, and yet i've seen ceramic vases with more true curvature than the average woman.
we fill up and spill from one empty vessel to the next, one hot gossip that can't leave your lips until it swallows your thoughts.
Vomiting just for the practice of it, empty heaves, emptier dreams of grandeur, and the pastel surrealists keep telling me about a dream where pale waters and white-faced people share the same pallour. They paint my eyebrows in with such arching spines that my expression looks pinned down like a butterfly spread candidly by pins. Yes, tell me how I feel. Even better, paint the exact precipitous angle between virginal innocence and whorish indulgence of knowledge. You can almost feel yourself pressing against every surface in order to have that reaction, that glossy expression that takes shape in wood grain like visitors i've never met staring inquisitevely at my foreign face.
Books written in burning sand that are too hot to the touch, bibles written too true to be upheld with two hands.
A bird in the bush is better than two in the hand. Oh wait, my hands aren't the able crafters of conventional objects, no beams, no square lined tables, oh Jesus would be dissapointed at my lack of carpentry - rather fluttering and unable in their wagging appendages, shaking like canaries kept in a cage. Bars only allow half the sun to come through, much like we allow ourselves only to see the halved, lesser truths of what brings one person in the company of another. We are loved, but in an unequal and disparaging fashion - magazine dating tips that only apply to the grossly over-sexual or to its own flawless, glossy textures. You lay your hand next to his but realize its only an ad being reprinted and reprinted and reprinted for those just like you looking to hold something that looks like genuine touch.
Cameras have been lying to us for centuries, only now our shading angles of exhibitionism have become low-angled shots of non-expressive mouths, or upper angled shots of fountained hair, orbital breasts, and cervix-symmetrical adam's apple. They have been stealing our souls, and the writers have been decieved into writing captions for them. "5'o clock shadow screams masulinity" "fake fake fake eyelashes are the only true necessity" "layers of lead paint may actually arrest any assumption of preteen-ism/immaturity".
The lights shine in wave after wave over the images, darkened rooms and overhead lamps, and yet nothing can pass all the way through one singular image - my girlfriend poses with an honest awkwarndess, black and white nonchalance next to a modest and leafless tree.
adjust textures, take out the harsh natural environment, remove everything from its original place.
We overlap our negatives until our faces mesh, our androgyny ripe only when your features are inseperable from mine.
Your characteristics now show that assertive nature to construct phallic pillars, proving we're taken care of and well-supported.
Mine are the effeminate rolls of the wrist that cut the light into symbols, a language only spoken when we know our bodies could be switched in any instant and neither of us would notice
My locked joints stiffen as if the warm morning sun won't wake up the skin, but instead arrests it lying still in a tight, embryonic ball.
Don't tell me not to stand up, I've been waiting this entire time for the large booming crescendo to raise up on my seat and throw my fists through the thin projecting screen. I know there's only the smallest figures wreathed with the largest silhouettes controlling all those monstrous shapes.
Im sick, i'm sick, i'm sick - I need some place to be sick in before all the pop culture isms, self-effacing self-fulfilled prophecies, and every other sort of half finished quotation I'd be embarrased to stop in the middle of becomes painfully obvious to the surface.
All is not right.
We take one large breath in and hope to exhale away all who surround us.
I can't help but look at people's faces, x'd out, and wonder how they didn't notice themselves being blinded.
I believe in love, I believe in coming back from a point too dismal to qualify, and yet those simple forces don't seem enough
to combat a sea of apathy. Acres of concerete, shoved together and huddled into semi-stacked living complexes.
Curled bodies wrapped in silk litter the hallway, careful not to upturn their face to show the gored holes centering their brilliant faces.
Their eyes glitter like lead caught under the skin, their potential reaches so far into the future they can't bear to live in the present.
It seems too backwarded, too prehistoric, to love one another so openly and so brazenly. Like living underground and resurfacing only to see people no longer using sex as a means to reproduce: an entire community based on touch no long being necessary.
Touch the walls and they become a hall of mirrors; try to touch us and touch them and touch yourself - its only the good company of a few voices inside your head.
Life should be inside all of us, and yet i've seen ceramic vases with more true curvature than the average woman.
we fill up and spill from one empty vessel to the next, one hot gossip that can't leave your lips until it swallows your thoughts.
Vomiting just for the practice of it, empty heaves, emptier dreams of grandeur, and the pastel surrealists keep telling me about a dream where pale waters and white-faced people share the same pallour. They paint my eyebrows in with such arching spines that my expression looks pinned down like a butterfly spread candidly by pins. Yes, tell me how I feel. Even better, paint the exact precipitous angle between virginal innocence and whorish indulgence of knowledge. You can almost feel yourself pressing against every surface in order to have that reaction, that glossy expression that takes shape in wood grain like visitors i've never met staring inquisitevely at my foreign face.
Books written in burning sand that are too hot to the touch, bibles written too true to be upheld with two hands.
A bird in the bush is better than two in the hand. Oh wait, my hands aren't the able crafters of conventional objects, no beams, no square lined tables, oh Jesus would be dissapointed at my lack of carpentry - rather fluttering and unable in their wagging appendages, shaking like canaries kept in a cage. Bars only allow half the sun to come through, much like we allow ourselves only to see the halved, lesser truths of what brings one person in the company of another. We are loved, but in an unequal and disparaging fashion - magazine dating tips that only apply to the grossly over-sexual or to its own flawless, glossy textures. You lay your hand next to his but realize its only an ad being reprinted and reprinted and reprinted for those just like you looking to hold something that looks like genuine touch.
Cameras have been lying to us for centuries, only now our shading angles of exhibitionism have become low-angled shots of non-expressive mouths, or upper angled shots of fountained hair, orbital breasts, and cervix-symmetrical adam's apple. They have been stealing our souls, and the writers have been decieved into writing captions for them. "5'o clock shadow screams masulinity" "fake fake fake eyelashes are the only true necessity" "layers of lead paint may actually arrest any assumption of preteen-ism/immaturity".
The lights shine in wave after wave over the images, darkened rooms and overhead lamps, and yet nothing can pass all the way through one singular image - my girlfriend poses with an honest awkwarndess, black and white nonchalance next to a modest and leafless tree.
adjust textures, take out the harsh natural environment, remove everything from its original place.
We overlap our negatives until our faces mesh, our androgyny ripe only when your features are inseperable from mine.
Your characteristics now show that assertive nature to construct phallic pillars, proving we're taken care of and well-supported.
Mine are the effeminate rolls of the wrist that cut the light into symbols, a language only spoken when we know our bodies could be switched in any instant and neither of us would notice
My locked joints stiffen as if the warm morning sun won't wake up the skin, but instead arrests it lying still in a tight, embryonic ball.
Don't tell me not to stand up, I've been waiting this entire time for the large booming crescendo to raise up on my seat and throw my fists through the thin projecting screen. I know there's only the smallest figures wreathed with the largest silhouettes controlling all those monstrous shapes.
Im sick, i'm sick, i'm sick - I need some place to be sick in before all the pop culture isms, self-effacing self-fulfilled prophecies, and every other sort of half finished quotation I'd be embarrased to stop in the middle of becomes painfully obvious to the surface.
All is not right.