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Dawn Isdawn is a circle: flat, smooth, heavy, wet. i will squeeze water from it, or try to, at least. most likely i will squeeze from it the gravel at my feet, a ratty tire, bathroom tiles, shards of glass.Dawn Is
and yet when this oasis vanishes so will you. so will i. soon all that will remain of us will be portraits, hanging above the bowed heads of children on the walls of our studio with all the sentimentality of sepia.
in time even they will change.
isn't my heart a studio - or rather, a frame whose contents spin as if around the sun?
by ~deadend-zenith
Jinxes, Oracles, ExaltationsTo which anorexic candlestick should I affix these milky flecks, exposed at last? My picks connote the axes' insecurities, the complexity of proofs and promulgations burnt in aftershocks wherein cannons glister in metropolis sloughs. There pace inveiglers promising Atlas, jinxes, oracles, magicians, apexes, exaltations. Shall I descend into some big top, blood-red, seductive? Or shall I swath my Self in spacious depravity, liquid thick and onyx, like a river pent up in exile?Jinxes, Oracles, Exaltations
by ~deadend-zenith
Thus Spoke IcarusIn the cavities of ashen sepulchers the shadows of prophets repose, breath stripped by barren airs.Thus Spoke Icarus
What but a coffin could humble those who soaked, complacent, in steel brooks and guzzled gold until they bloated, black-blooded, corpulent? How peculiar, the transmutations of the crypt, and how powerful, to render saviors no more savant than the schizophrenic, eyes akimbo, chiseling theorems in the ruts of cinder blocks.
by ~deadend-zenith
The BalconyThe view from my balcony:The Balcony
A slow-burning grease fire casting shadows from the back of a cabana-blind tortoise whose madcap eyes roll limpidly, devouring sparks. The nested spheres of Calippus swivel, I imagine, like these nacreous ovals, which stew in coves and Carib vehemence.
My God, I feel the noose around its neck should terminate, heavy, in my hand, or that we should press on, the tortoise and I, toeing the margins of brine: Beyond this dusky no man's land is a bed of coals, wider than the smokestacks of my lover, if I can
by ~deadend-zenith
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- Current Residence: Evanston, IL
- Interests: Literature, photography
- Personal Quote: In the history of language, the first obscenity was silence.
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Member of =The-Yard-Collective
thank you for faving "Window to the World" [link] in July. i was a bit lazy answering, sorry for that
Thank you for the support !
I really appreciate it!!
Bobby
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`ArtistsForCharity
~You Must Be The Change You Wish To See In The World. ~ M. Gandhi~
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A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world... ☆
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Le peu de choses que je sais, c'est à mon ignorance que je le dois...
LL
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