(birth.)
i walk home, crisp shoelaces, bloodied nose
middle of autumn, frothing at the mouth
kids took summer skin too far, brought on apocalypse
i tell myself it will be over soon, wintertime freckles
will be here
incensed
(childhood.)
stove milk and delicate murmurs
the technicolor alphabet teaches itself
purple bowls with animal faces
hospital bracelets around tiny wrists
won’t come loose
mama
(adolescence.)
the clouds are gasoline, wisps of gin, addicted
there is vomit on the floor, new candy sores
sky is burning, orange with hungry flame, vying
i don’t know who to talk to, crying
let me go
alive
(adulthood.)
doctor
there are no pitfalls in the renown of hurt,
for it is always there
in the mold of something neglected,
something bloodshot; unraveling it from the prayer
of a public leukemia.
a king of disintegrating glitch, of possession-conquest,
the unquiet phenomenon to the silver-fleshed,
it preaches against a stormy flux
of her guilt, asteroid-ridden throne.
thesmophoria in grey. by crooked-clockwork, literature
Literature
thesmophoria in grey.
A statement to Cerberus, the roughhewn;
her blood is hypoxic, blooming florid,
that name too profound to be hummed so soon
frets the desert-beat heart, throbbing torrid.
Deep-sea glass will tell this sobering tale
through sundry a dawn of dusks and daybreaks,
in lifelong ties to a slow coffin nail
she dyes droplets of Sauvignon headaches.
Fixed in the Kuiper Belt, lobbed asunder
to the core of a ghost; plutonian,
her mother counsels the springtide thunder
in a burnt garden, his bid chthonian:
“Our grim daydreams, no longer monochrome –
mother, child, to dew from dead winter; home.”
no one is born in prison,
some in waiting,
some in holding,
but no one is born in prison.
waiting can last for a few days,
to arrest us for crying too loud,
for a flustered first breath.
holding can bring tears and
scarred forearms, but only last a few seconds.
the whole world smiles at you,
but holds your hands behind your back.
from licorice ties to metal knots,
fresh fruit to torn underwear;
men and women grin,
but know they hold your heart
in contaminated fingers.
burrowing their nails deep,
forcing almond-tasting idiocy
farther into tender muscle
upon loving caress,
we are incessantly in prison –
we just aren’t born ther
a fucked up joke. by crooked-clockwork, literature
Literature
a fucked up joke.
his body in a bed of fleece, emaciated,
mind dreaming deep of his muse deceased;
this man of twenty-three, hero of none, a liar and a thief,
how dare he speak of love
when all he knows is to eat.
cannibal, not yet, yet tired of the term,
“they parody him,” they say, “they pervert him,”;
all disagree, though he has learned to tame his woes
in some form or fashion, screaming into sheet music,
dreaming deep of a muse deceased.
meat and muscle lacks taste, much like the scenery
after the night of the suppression –
left crying
please do not go
please oh god
do not leave me
when all he knows is to eat, they say;
wh
wedlock-born child of envy,
red-eyed misfortune, a cake to bake;
he sees the cherry blossoms and thinks of death
rather than life, plucked too early;
heart too broad, heart too simple.
the limbs of trees his own,
nature a nuisance but so close;
he creates a world similar to our own
but slightly more misunderstood.
his name for misanthropy,
red-eyed mischief and monopoly;
to steal his music and leave him faithless:
it
fills his lungs with fire;
fills his body with cancer,
for with it,
he will be all right.
drink the cold medicine down like
winter berries, for cherries don’t bloom like that;
no, cherries don’t bloom like that:
chestnut hair, ocean eyes trapped in the glass of tragic romance,
like blue russian spies and the red bloodied soldiers;
that’s how she spoke, so choked up by tears and gunsmoke,
reverberation in a stadium, so red, white, and
blanche;
to run by the beach,
high and living to be young and die,
to be spry and breathe on borrowed lungs:
to inhale burn and exhale melancholia.
it’s humbly the american dream,
to be loved by a man with a golden soul so clean;
to wear your lips dripping with emotion and drink down
love to mine her coal-black spoils and pop-art crown.
she hugged her body close,
her caged heart a weapon she had to protect,
the sky was dark, a violent repercussion
i should’ve recognized; the ultraviolet rays
from the spying sun, it seared my skin like
the poisonous moonlight breaking the windows –
death came like a wave, each day a new set
of tears to shed, a new vase
of pretty flowers to pick. the water
tasted bitter, but the lovely faces in the caskets
made it bearable.
at noontime, sipping tea and eating his tousled hair,
he dared to say he loved me. before our death,
after the burial,
i laughed, holding my un-beating heart far away from his fingers,
and once again,
“i love you.”
words more of a statement rather than a confession;
(birth.)
i walk home, crisp shoelaces, bloodied nose
middle of autumn, frothing at the mouth
kids took summer skin too far, brought on apocalypse
i tell myself it will be over soon, wintertime freckles
will be here
incensed
(childhood.)
stove milk and delicate murmurs
the technicolor alphabet teaches itself
purple bowls with animal faces
hospital bracelets around tiny wrists
won’t come loose
mama
(adolescence.)
the clouds are gasoline, wisps of gin, addicted
there is vomit on the floor, new candy sores
sky is burning, orange with hungry flame, vying
i don’t know who to talk to, crying
let me go
alive
(adulthood.)
doctor
there are no pitfalls in the renown of hurt,
for it is always there
in the mold of something neglected,
something bloodshot; unraveling it from the prayer
of a public leukemia.
a king of disintegrating glitch, of possession-conquest,
the unquiet phenomenon to the silver-fleshed,
it preaches against a stormy flux
of her guilt, asteroid-ridden throne.
thesmophoria in grey. by crooked-clockwork, literature
Literature
thesmophoria in grey.
A statement to Cerberus, the roughhewn;
her blood is hypoxic, blooming florid,
that name too profound to be hummed so soon
frets the desert-beat heart, throbbing torrid.
Deep-sea glass will tell this sobering tale
through sundry a dawn of dusks and daybreaks,
in lifelong ties to a slow coffin nail
she dyes droplets of Sauvignon headaches.
Fixed in the Kuiper Belt, lobbed asunder
to the core of a ghost; plutonian,
her mother counsels the springtide thunder
in a burnt garden, his bid chthonian:
“Our grim daydreams, no longer monochrome –
mother, child, to dew from dead winter; home.”
no one is born in prison,
some in waiting,
some in holding,
but no one is born in prison.
waiting can last for a few days,
to arrest us for crying too loud,
for a flustered first breath.
holding can bring tears and
scarred forearms, but only last a few seconds.
the whole world smiles at you,
but holds your hands behind your back.
from licorice ties to metal knots,
fresh fruit to torn underwear;
men and women grin,
but know they hold your heart
in contaminated fingers.
burrowing their nails deep,
forcing almond-tasting idiocy
farther into tender muscle
upon loving caress,
we are incessantly in prison –
we just aren’t born ther
a fucked up joke. by crooked-clockwork, literature
Literature
a fucked up joke.
his body in a bed of fleece, emaciated,
mind dreaming deep of his muse deceased;
this man of twenty-three, hero of none, a liar and a thief,
how dare he speak of love
when all he knows is to eat.
cannibal, not yet, yet tired of the term,
“they parody him,” they say, “they pervert him,”;
all disagree, though he has learned to tame his woes
in some form or fashion, screaming into sheet music,
dreaming deep of a muse deceased.
meat and muscle lacks taste, much like the scenery
after the night of the suppression –
left crying
please do not go
please oh god
do not leave me
when all he knows is to eat, they say;
wh
wedlock-born child of envy,
red-eyed misfortune, a cake to bake;
he sees the cherry blossoms and thinks of death
rather than life, plucked too early;
heart too broad, heart too simple.
the limbs of trees his own,
nature a nuisance but so close;
he creates a world similar to our own
but slightly more misunderstood.
his name for misanthropy,
red-eyed mischief and monopoly;
to steal his music and leave him faithless:
it
fills his lungs with fire;
fills his body with cancer,
for with it,
he will be all right.
drink the cold medicine down like
winter berries, for cherries don’t bloom like that;
no, cherries don’t bloom like that:
chestnut hair, ocean eyes trapped in the glass of tragic romance,
like blue russian spies and the red bloodied soldiers;
that’s how she spoke, so choked up by tears and gunsmoke,
reverberation in a stadium, so red, white, and
blanche;
to run by the beach,
high and living to be young and die,
to be spry and breathe on borrowed lungs:
to inhale burn and exhale melancholia.
it’s humbly the american dream,
to be loved by a man with a golden soul so clean;
to wear your lips dripping with emotion and drink down
love to mine her coal-black spoils and pop-art crown.
she hugged her body close,
her caged heart a weapon she had to protect,
the sky was dark, a violent repercussion
i should’ve recognized; the ultraviolet rays
from the spying sun, it seared my skin like
the poisonous moonlight breaking the windows –
death came like a wave, each day a new set
of tears to shed, a new vase
of pretty flowers to pick. the water
tasted bitter, but the lovely faces in the caskets
made it bearable.
at noontime, sipping tea and eating his tousled hair,
he dared to say he loved me. before our death,
after the burial,
i laughed, holding my un-beating heart far away from his fingers,
and once again,
“i love you.”
words more of a statement rather than a confession;
he can’t help his misunderstanding, his trust issues pent up like
bondage without the blindfold and war without bombs;
and he cries because he can’t take this break, he can’t take the uncertainty,
yet there’s a reason to believe his serenity;
he whispers apologies to the body he ignores,
caresses the chest he binds and the thighs he cuts;
small hips, big brain,
stupid thoughts, suicide heart;
he’s higher than this,
he’s more out of order, more out of control than this;
there is no breathing for him, only choking,
and there’s no way to know when or if he’ll shed this skin
so he may breathe
psychology defines schizophrenia
as an impairing, delusional disorder
borne in the person’s inexorable inability
to tell right from wrong,
hopeless fantasy from harsh reality,
or even suspicion from acceptance
but aspen is a lovely, flexible woman
with names of imperial animal races
that never belonged to them,
with the countless colors of her eyes that
she makes up with named numbers
written in cursive sharpie on her palms
she takes pills that seem to
dampen & take away those charming
things she always says to me;
the voices don’t haunt or tease her,
they’ve always respected the way she
counted with willpower & the way sh
I'm your average broke artist. I put my cats before myself. I am taken by a beautiful boy that doubts his beauty.
El Psy Congroo.
Also, I know I never thank anyone for favorites, but I try to always respond to comments, features and the likes. However, a thanks for the generous favorites from my readers is hopefully implied. Again, thank you!
Some of my favorite artists that you should definitely check out!
Some of my favorite writers that you should definitely check out!
My IRL friends and great artists (check them out as well!)
Favourite Visual Artist
yuumei
Favourite Movies
Platoon and Howl's Moving Castle, mainly.
Favourite TV Shows
Mostly just anime.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Ki:Theory, RHCP, The Neighbourhood, Shawn James and the Shapeshifters, anything really.
Favourite Writers
Andrew Hussie, George DeValier, Neil Gaiman, Sylvia Plath, etc.
Favourite Games
The Last of Us, Deep-Sea Prisoner's games, Pokemon, Danganronpa, Destiny, Yume Nikki, OFF, Beyond. I spend most of my time playing games, so.
Oh mah gursh(: Thank you so so much for all the favorites! It made me extremely logging in and seeing all the notifications in my message box. *glomps you*