my world

26Feb09

i open my eyes to a cyclone of sadness. circling images of his face. dejavu uninterrupted. the world is topsy turvy. and i am stumbling with it. cyclone, cyclone, take me away. tear my limbs into pieces and send me astray. to a different plane, i jump. where a different mind awaits. my skull opens up like a makeup compact. a pearl inside a shell. my brain rolls out like a gum ball and splatters like an egg. release. i close my eyes and breathe. a rush of air. it smells like a shroud. i breathe in deeper until I start gagging. i curl up inside my tiny arms. knees bent. i let my head hang. a rush of blood pours out of my skull. splatters all over his faces. come back to life. please. come back to life. there is no sound of a cyclone. there is no sound of my breath. i fall over to my side and stare bleary eyed across the skies. i close them. and wait. and listen. nothing. in my world anymore, death is the only thing alive.

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the funeral of the rose

18Feb09

A rosebud quietly grows inside her.

Tiny, and soft.

It waits for a letter, a word, a whisper.

Carried, and cradled.

She waits for a nudge, a kick, a temper.

Warm, and sweet. 

It fills her cavity with fragrance, perfume, an elixir.

Blossom, and blood.

It’s thorns jet out, sharp, they prick her.

Sting, and pain.

She crumples and squeezes, control, a fixer.

Burst, and stain.

The damage leaves bruises, purple, and sinister.

Cold, and confused.

It dies slowly, wilting, within her.

Empty, and numb.

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take a listen…

02Feb09

 

do you like?

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Really liking this…

18Jan09

http://www.myspace.com/pashasoundsystem

try the song titled ‘Manzoor.’ of course :)

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Tags: manzoor, pasha sound system, songs

Our fornication

20Oct08

started as soon as he created me. I, innocent, but bold, took my veil off and spoke to him. At first, there was no answer to my calls. There was no interest to my offerings. He gave me no indication of his want for me. He caused me to question not only myself, but his capabilities. This mental state is the safest to appear in. It is vulnerability which he manifests through. I opened myself and plainly revealed my wants.

“Make me not your bride, your mistress, nor your concubine. Make me your house of worship.”

He took my lead. “What shall I worship?”

“Yourself.”

“That is not fornication, lady. That is rape.”

“Quite opposite. That is revelation. Truth. And the light to my flame.”

“Why do you need a cause? I am made of fire. The hottest of its kind.”

“You as you are now, are not enough. I seek not warmth, nor light, nor any of your other properties. I seek reflection.”

“This is a lofty wish.”

I had never had such a being, but I was not afraid. I knew that the pleasure, unfamiliar as it was, would be so fulfilling, I would either not stand it and die in an acute orgasm or live the rest of my life disapproving the rest. I was willing to take that risk.

“Come. Let me kiss you.”

And so we kissed. And I felt his glow brighten. He shaped himself in between me like a man, and took me. His smokeless body muted, but wild. And he released into me his witholdings from another life, another world. I felt not power over him. Instead, it was his worship inside of me that reflected my own inside him. A mirror image we were, yet so vastly different. We bowed, our weak bodies covered in sex, tangled flesh and flame. 18th century hell. Pre-century speech. Isn’t that all it is in the end? A few mumbles of rhyme, dirtied by spit, and delivered by drunkards. Aren’t we all just trying to speak? Trying to be heard? If not to one another, then to who are we screaming. To who are we coming. Who are we wanting.

“Leave, lover. Leave me be. Let me write the last of my memoir.”

He commands me to speak. I cannot escape it. It is a constant madness in my mind and soul. It is who I am. Whether I open my mouth and utter a few words, or take in a few cocks. The words of my life are nothing but symbols; stars in the heavenly skies, reflecting.

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