itajeut

Eat you my heart for it is paltry, stringy and yearns to eat the world in turn. So I gave it away once, to a woman on the street whose fingers were wrapped in arabesque gold and silver curls that were their own kind of stylised gorgeousity and present only on the other side of madness; a friend, when we sat hip to hip trying to define our own kind of reality sharp mirror shards as our toes dig into warm crannies of a couch overlaid with a tender blanket; another friend, another continent away and another and another and another and another and another one too; and time and time again to all my loves in that one moment of trut

Heaven knows: i do not know where I should go from the here and now to the tomorrow during these midnight ramblings along serpentine veins tracing the corridors of the mind :- age-old, dusky with disuse or forming like tender skin: Glistening, pink and tender. in mornings I wake to the tepid taste of peeling skin and yellow nails coating my tongue - the unpleasant tang of honesty that lingers after twilight impressions. It is written that i will not know where I should go. There are only morning routines: of toothpaste and the baptism of the showerhead, washing away the phelgmy aftertaste of the yester-day as tomorrow

we are not strangers you and i so why is it so difficult to c.o.n.n.e.c.t. the sound system up in this hallowed silence beamed, transmitted to a live audience. not strangers. so it is strange to grasp at words that are stuck in the awful transition between fish lips and bubbles. strangers. to the point that my words seem to reach you only after wading through thick marshes of half-formed, tentative mutants of jumbled syntax and awkward invisible pregnant pauses that lie there heavily, fat elephant seals drunk on caramel. i forgot. what used to be: a direct hotline phone to ear, lips to phone and sentiment signed, se