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♥ she hangs b r i g h t l y from the tree ♥
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| (no subject) |
[May. 20th, 2010|12:02 am] |
Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.
The greatest and most important problems of life are all fundamentally insoluble. They can never be solved but only outgrown.
The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.
We cannot change anything until we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.
“We may be up against a stone wall, but we don't have to bloody our heads against it unless we choose to.” |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2010|02:45 pm] |
it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;
moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:
one pierced moment whiter than the rest
-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
ee cummings |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2010|02:43 pm] |
you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love,
am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely
to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean:
entirely having in my careful how
careful arms created this at length
inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure-you go from several
persons: believe me that strangers arrive
when i have kissed you into a memory
slowly, oh seriously
-that since and if you disappear
solemnly
myselves
ask "life, the question how do i drink dream smile
and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend"
they wonder. oh and they cry "to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love."
ee cummings |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2010|02:46 am] |
DIONYSUS by Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Somewhere, suspended in facetless space,
the vine is spiralling, shown in the distance, with loosened hair:
the farther the eye is, the quicker, the faster it is moving,
as if all this length is bestowing on it the result
and the encouraging memory of the way, done and forgotten for good.
Distance, as well as time, has this passion to swell and to lace
things, to disguise them, to make them not nicer, but – rarer…
Like a girl with all her bracelets, all chains and embroidery, hovering
in the mellow breeze of the room, waiting for these anchors to drown her, to melt
in dark, ardent and prosperous silence her body – the flower of the day’s mood.
The distance is changing, the most changeable of all substances,
constantly gaining its goals, exhausted by the easiest victories.
Little pulsating veins of this marble are filtering it and releasing,
pure again, for time to start all anew. What could be found
harder than to seek for so long and to strike the same target.
You seem not to know what a terrible distance it is
that is making your tresses curl, round and whisper your knees.
You are bending the bud of your head, and this age is approaching, seizing
the traces of perfume and dew left in the air, like a sound
in the wood of a horn, a brazen stem of pursuit. Clouds drag it
upwards, to the boiling disaster of blue. Pine-trees draw it
to their lamps, sucking out dim gold from the depth. Now you raise
your wavy hand, a fleshy brush with a cluster of fingers and somewhere above
a little skylark repeats these frail motions, exactly the same,
and its tiny dappled wing is pressed between the wings of the hot wind.
for a purposeless march, the flawless seasons are stretching their row, lit
and lost, lit and lost: a spot of the sun is thus twinkling through branches.
We don’t lose when we lose, we are lost ourselves. Brief, shy jingling
of a rusted small bell on the roof of a century. Your pale, luminous face,
a crying planet that had trespassed its orb. Down these ivory shoulders flows
evening, a stream of a midday, here slow, there swift.
Your palms are two halves of a fruit, cloven for autumnal praise.
The belly, like a dream, that is completely remembered, to live and to move
long after all others are sold and betrayed. The distance, dying without a claim
for a short while, and then resurrecting and holding your mind
within the limits of this particular forest, and this non-returnable gift.
As if you are condemned to shine here, like our childhood, a few inches
below the level of blood, is condemned to remain calling, aching,
as if time no longer has the quality of reassuring, retrieving the space
and our loss will return. The inky mist now softens and sews
with the needle of a long astray ray a glowing pattern of midnight.
If it’s true that each circle will close, and each moment will meet face to face
with his own reflection in the lake of his pain, why are we
so eager to start all once more? As if a slow return is our goal.
As if patience no longer is pregnant with ravelling rage.
A shred of dark cloud is flagging on the top of a pine: the knot is tight.
Other clouds are flowing and spreading their portable maze.
The heavy bead of the moon toils to tear its chain, but this hardly could be:
like a spiralling fume, moving tiptoe, your remembering soul
comes and leans over you, touching the flowering bars of your cage. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2010|01:47 am] |
Clouds by Philip Levine
1
Dawn. First light tearing
at the rough tongues of the zinnias,
at the leaves of the just born.
Today it will rain. On the road
black cars are abandoned, but the clouds
ride above, their wisdom intact.
They are predictions. They never matter.
The jet fighters lift above the flat roofs,
black arrowheads trailing their future.
2
When the night comes small fires go out.
Blood runs to the heart and finds it locked.
Morning is exhaustion, tranquilizers, gasoline,
the screaming of frozen bearings,
the failures ofwill, the TV talking to itself
The clouds go on eating oil, cigars,
housewives, sighing letters,
the breath of lies. In their great silent pockets
they carry off all our dead.
3
The clouds collect until there's no sky.
A boat slips its moorings and drifts
toward the open sea, turning and turning.
The moon bends to the canal and bathes
her torn lips, and the earth goes on
giving off her angers and sighs
and who knows or cares except these
breathing the first rains,
the last rivers running over iron.
4
You cut an apple in two pieces
and ate them both. In the rain
the door knocked and you dreamed it.
On bad roads the poor walked under cardboard boxes.
The houses are angry because they're watched.
A soldier wants to talk with God
but his mouth fills with lost tags.
The clouds have seen it all, in the dark
they pass over the graves of the forgotten
and they don't cry or whisper.
They should be punished every morning,
they should be bitten and boiled like spoons. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2010|12:23 am] |
I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; birds & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there's race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they're building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone's
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can't be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you're a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there's the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.
-Margaret Atwood |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|11:49 pm] |
I remember watching you
So sure that I could take you in.
Traveling into my world.
A violet flame cures my freezer burn.
In my hand, I feel the softness of this violet petal
So sure that you could understand
this perfect violet petal in my hand.
How many lifetimes have we walked?
How deep is this abyss beneath us?
On this long and violet walk
The watchmaker turns his head towords us.
But I am growing impatient
So sure that you would let me in.
Traveling into your world.
Is there no cure for your freezer burn?
Turn it on again
And let it try to break my concentration.
If I choose to live
Could we deal with this dichotomy?
In my hand, I feel the softness of this violet petal
And I know that nothing’s perfect like
this violet petal in my hand.
How many lifetimes have we walked?
How deep is this abyss beneath us?
On this long and violet walk
The watchmaker turns his head towords us.
Peace leaches out from me.
I start to shiver – it’s cold.
Pride. Pour it over me.
I start to shiver – it’s cold.
You’ve got a smart head on your shoulders
Why do you have to be so dense?
I am slipping, wearing thin
and being driven away
You’re too proud to give into me.
But I don’t want to give up on you. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 19th, 2009|01:11 am] |
I've been criticized
For speaking my mind
Been baptized in lies
Given bad advice
Here's a word to the wise
Never compromise
Watch your back
As you watch your ends multiply
Look a man in his eyes
And never ever say die
Keep your eye on the prize
And you'll stay on the rise
I'm a king world wide
And I'm going to stay on the ground
I've been behind the glass but I always rebound
Outlet quick live life in the fast lane
Inbound Outbound my stride don't change
Stay true to myself cause I created this game
I got the whole world jumpin' like
the house of pain |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2009|04:41 pm] |
your love's a bullet
train, and i never want the
ride to be over. |
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| insignificance |
[May. 14th, 2009|05:59 pm] |
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it's insane how fast life can change how one event can be a catalyst and everything can crumble into nothing or form into something how people can look at you one way one day and see you as something completely different the other how aging is unstoppable and life can stop abruptly how sometimes you wake up and the sun is shining in your face and everything feels all right but the next day the sun in your eyes is just annoying as fuck and you don't want to get out of bed and face reality how reality can be warped depending on the way you decide to interpret it that day and how some people are so incredibly blind and others see too much and how insignificant we all really are how these words and my memories will be buried with me and how it will all occur so rapidly and without sound. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 6th, 2009|11:51 pm] |
i miss summer '08. things will never be the same :/
i hate growing up. i feel like i'm only growing down; deep into this suffocating, twisted black hole called life. |
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| high |
[May. 3rd, 2009|11:39 pm] |
Chase faded days
with eyes that cannot see
I wanna feel it again
washing over me
discover all of you
one moment at a time
taste, smell, secret cell,
your soul, it touches mine
I need to feel up
Hope knows I need it this way
Like I'm walking on clouds
I can't come down-even if you wanted me to
I can't come down-even if you wanted me to
Nothing can stop me
I'm never satisfied.
I take what i want
refuse to be denied.
Live in the moment,
the future can disguise.
It's starting to touch us,
but I still can't touch the sky...
I need to feel up
Hope knows I need it this way
Like I'm walking on clouds
I can't come down
Even if you wanted me to, I can't come down |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 30th, 2009|03:47 pm] |
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.
robert frost |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 25th, 2009|03:46 am] |
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It could be wiser to simply promise less. |
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sickness_and's journal
