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'History' is irrelevant, only chemical emotion matters. To feel, or not to feel. Don't think about it.
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Loryndalar_Sa
08 April 2009 @ 01:27 am
07 April 2009 @ 02:35 am
05 April 2009 @ 11:17 pm
It never quite goes away, no matter how much I'll forgive it.
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17 March 2009 @ 09:08 pm
The wet street--an invoked night sky.
The night city, aglow and slick
pavement, mirror, the way a cloudless
view of stars should blow from a storm.
Above, there is concrete. I love
an inversion.
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17 March 2009 @ 09:02 pm
28 February 2009 @ 09:43 pm
A backpacker's bed in Exeter.
Cat of smell cricked around my back
neck, tasting a recent guest.
So I spoke. Instead of breathing.
Pushed out, out that first take.
Made a fold in my bed. A triangle in linen.
Placing my lips around your phone.
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27 February 2009 @ 01:20 pm
How more like life, than to walk
on a crust of ice. Snow,
the dissembled puzzle--
refrozen, at its almost last life.
Once came soft, then together--
then, the breaking of a stanza.
--cracking, the pale ground,
not quite earth.
To walk, with flat, snake, feet,
on the crispest dirt.
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27 February 2009 @ 01:11 pm
Under snowfall, the sky lit
as an eerie summer day.
Where you may lay in that sepia noon,
this was our evening, pushed upside--
to the sky, instead of from it.
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26 February 2009 @ 10:47 pm
The course wind from the underground--
up by the esculators, flooding with refuse from below,
onto the upper streets. Terrible, hovercraft fans,
still, now, but in summer,
push even human waste, exude-vapour,
up onto an incinderary city. --Pushes,
and nods to the sky's great (secret) vacuum.
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26 February 2009 @ 10:40 pm
I've missed the rain in London
--and this is not a reminice.
It has been a dry-powder-
air--fine, clustered pollen.
I sneeze! on clean air.
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26 February 2009 @ 10:37 pm
The train was delayed for a swan on the line.
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26 February 2009 @ 10:36 pm
I'd never seen a nuclear power station before.
I was heading to oxford,
and its vases sat,
undisturbing the surrounded ground. --
A curve that was unlike the countryside.
Bespoke.
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26 February 2009 @ 10:32 pm
Almost a motto: Just. Keep. Walking.
I can understand your pushing the Earth away
all over the dusk,
night a prelude to more day.
Crouched in bookstores, reading novels,
till being pushed, to keep moving on.
It's a way of not being in place,
and less cruel.
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11 February 2009 @ 05:13 pm
The longer months--she'd left to live--they'd said.
My Dad thought that meant; more than a year.
Cowardly sensitive, I agreed only by ommission.
And tried not to act surprised, the longer she was.
----------
It was funny, our living goodbye--
how neither of us said anything--not even
how sad we would be, how distant I was going
overseas--we spoke of our abandoned, criminal lives.
And instead I wrote her a card
of my inability to speak.
She choked on blood, my Mother said--breaking
into how we spoke of her
into her speech, her insistance--and I had wished
for her a final articulate goodbye.
And it is funny--even uncanny--how
that gutteral glob
between the two of us,
and in the ocean, said.
----------
I saw my Gran the day I left,
and it was as if it were a great contraction of all my life;
all from adult now, to having told her childhood dreams.
We'd reminiced on jewel-heists that never were.
We spoke then, and in a roundabout way,
said everything except our actual goodbyes.
But I remember the way she held my hand at the car,
wishing me good travel, her fingers in mine.
They way we'd talked,
was to draw everything but the absence out.
But that touch was irrefutable. It had been done.
I'll miss our rambling talks -- and in my thoughts:
Not goodbye, but good journey. I love you.
My Dad thought that meant; more than a year.
Cowardly sensitive, I agreed only by ommission.
And tried not to act surprised, the longer she was.
----------
It was funny, our living goodbye--
how neither of us said anything--not even
how sad we would be, how distant I was going
overseas--we spoke of our abandoned, criminal lives.
And instead I wrote her a card
of my inability to speak.
She choked on blood, my Mother said--breaking
into how we spoke of her
into her speech, her insistance--and I had wished
for her a final articulate goodbye.
And it is funny--even uncanny--how
that gutteral glob
between the two of us,
and in the ocean, said.
----------
I saw my Gran the day I left,
and it was as if it were a great contraction of all my life;
all from adult now, to having told her childhood dreams.
We'd reminiced on jewel-heists that never were.
We spoke then, and in a roundabout way,
said everything except our actual goodbyes.
But I remember the way she held my hand at the car,
wishing me good travel, her fingers in mine.
They way we'd talked,
was to draw everything but the absence out.
But that touch was irrefutable. It had been done.
I'll miss our rambling talks -- and in my thoughts:
Not goodbye, but good journey. I love you.
08 December 2008 @ 10:19 pm
Five:
Cut mica bangles--less gold, more
crystal. Bright. Without any other deft light.
Chipped from one deep block,
heavy, almost a solid uranium.
And when worn, body
transmutes inturn/stead
no minor cell now, only the event,
of worn bangles.
7/12/08
Six:
At awkward satin cloths,
stitched around temporary tables,
we listend to 'ho's and gangsta's' rap;
incongrously, we were watched, caught enjoying.
The three of us in good humours, each aware--looking
on the other couple's embarressment.
The DJ--in Tamil--brings the bride/groom in.
Shaking his hand, later, the groom's fingers
are dark in henna--against his bride,
his suit is western and young.
8/12/08
Cut mica bangles--less gold, more
crystal. Bright. Without any other deft light.
Chipped from one deep block,
heavy, almost a solid uranium.
And when worn, body
transmutes inturn/stead
no minor cell now, only the event,
of worn bangles.
7/12/08
Six:
At awkward satin cloths,
stitched around temporary tables,
we listend to 'ho's and gangsta's' rap;
incongrously, we were watched, caught enjoying.
The three of us in good humours, each aware--looking
on the other couple's embarressment.
The DJ--in Tamil--brings the bride/groom in.
Shaking his hand, later, the groom's fingers
are dark in henna--against his bride,
his suit is western and young.
8/12/08
06 December 2008 @ 01:46 pm
Two:
An uncommon chill holds us
but is not taken by the hooks of us, inside.
Only the defeating bubble
shrinks on us, and in our car, cooled,
late in our Malaysian night,
we visit neighbouring kafes
to drink tea, or abstain,
and are smaller--surrounded,
but untaken--by unrequited rain.
Three:
Snippets of foreign language soaps
translated into other foreignities--
languages, only sweetly lingual.
Four:
The cycle helmet sits abandoned;
not the head of a man;
not the skull of a giant, plastic,
man--but almost--I think it
a queer, smooth head
and laugh, its neck ragged,
filling with rain.
An uncommon chill holds us
but is not taken by the hooks of us, inside.
Only the defeating bubble
shrinks on us, and in our car, cooled,
late in our Malaysian night,
we visit neighbouring kafes
to drink tea, or abstain,
and are smaller--surrounded,
but untaken--by unrequited rain.
Three:
Snippets of foreign language soaps
translated into other foreignities--
languages, only sweetly lingual.
Four:
The cycle helmet sits abandoned;
not the head of a man;
not the skull of a giant, plastic,
man--but almost--I think it
a queer, smooth head
and laugh, its neck ragged,
filling with rain.
18 November 2008 @ 07:19 pm
Oh yeah! For those of you not knowing, I'm also heading to London, on the 5th December, for an indefinite period!
Err... we should catch up! :P
*Totally unprepared!*
Err... we should catch up! :P
*Totally unprepared!*
23 October 2008 @ 03:17 pm
Your result for What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test...
Balanced, Secure, and Realistic.
8 Impressionist, 1 Islamic, -9 Ukiyo-e, 7 Cubist, 5 Abstract and -24 Renaissance!
Impressionism is a movement in French painting, sometimes called optical realism because of its almost scientific interest in the actual visual experience and effect of light and movement on appearance of objects. Impressionist paintings are balanced, use colored shadows, use pure color, broken brushstrokes, thick paint, and scenes from everyday life or nature.
People that like Impressionist paintings may not alway be what is deemed socially acceptable. They tend to move on their own path without always worrying that it may be offensive to others. They value friendships but because they also value honesty tend to have a few really good friends. They do not, however, like people that are rude and do not appreciate the ideas of others. They are secure enough in themselves that they can listen to the ideas of other people without it affecting their own final decisions. The world for them is not black and white but more in shades of grey and muted colors. They like things to be aestically pleasing, not stark and sharp. There are many ways to view things, and the impresssionist personality views the world from many different aspects. They enjoy life and try to keep a realistic viewpoint of things, but are not very open to new experiences. If they are content in their live they will be more than likely pleased to keep things just the way they are.
Take What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test at HelloQuizzy
17 April 2008 @ 09:23 am
This one looks refreshing :)
The first three people who reply to this post, and who re-post this challenge: YOU WIN!!!
For your prize, I will send you a gift.
It might be something I've made, or something cool from my hidden stash of fabulousity. It might be a mix CD, or a rubber duck, or a book I think you might enjoy. A love letter, a useful object, or something else that is awesome or maybe just taking up room in my house. Very possibly something from my no-longer-in-existence Etsy store. [Or, er, what? No Etsy store for you (or me)! But something nice and/or appropriate :) )
Whatever it is, I promise I will get it to you in 365 days of your posted comment or less, and I will need your snail mail. PM your snail mail to me if you aren't comfortable posting it in a comment.
Ready
Set
Go!
The first three people who reply to this post, and who re-post this challenge: YOU WIN!!!
For your prize, I will send you a gift.
It might be something I've made, or something cool from my hidden stash of fabulousity. It might be a mix CD, or a rubber duck, or a book I think you might enjoy. A love letter, a useful object, or something else that is awesome or maybe just taking up room in my house. Very possibly something from my no-longer-in-existence Etsy store. [Or, er, what? No Etsy store for you (or me)! But something nice and/or appropriate :) )
Whatever it is, I promise I will get it to you in 365 days of your posted comment or less, and I will need your snail mail. PM your snail mail to me if you aren't comfortable posting it in a comment.
Ready
Set
Go!
25 March 2008 @ 01:51 am
Well! There's another :/
Nothing much to do with it.
Tis disappointing. Mmhmm.
Shall just keep on working on it,
shall I?
Nothing much to do with it.
Tis disappointing. Mmhmm.
Shall just keep on working on it,
shall I?