Wednesday, June 29, 2005

I am

Thrown
as Sartre would say

into this bipolar confusion
that ends in infinite silence,

the period to finitude.
Should I dare? To move?

As the shout from the box suggests?
Or is the box a work of art?

Am I a work of art?
Or the work of random rain?

Of plenitude or imperfection?
The stars are clear

and far away for lizards
to sit on and croak

their loud decrees
and final sentences

More ears, wide pans
like quiet satellite dishes

arewaiting in isolation
for a few more words after

"I am".

-russ-
http://readruss.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 6:01 PM

Thursday, June 23, 2005

miniscule

there's this moment
of sullen darkness
black leaves
against black skies,
black tears from black eyes.
there's this coldness
that seep through me
of dead longing,
such of a once lush
withered tree.

and there goes your presence
traveling through a distance
carrying with youthe drops of rain
that drowns my heart.how could i be in anguished?
how could i be in chain?
how could i be coated with hope
from endless mires?

you step along on a wet pavement.
murky waters splashed by your heavy soles.
have you ever feel me melting?
have you ever feel me dying?
then, the river of yearning
that hopes
that wishes
to intertwine us together
keep flowing, and never again be silenced by a hush.

and by that moment i seep myself unto the ground.
let all that bleeds within me
be absorbed by the harsh land.
it was in that instance,
in that very moment.
when you think of me
as if,
im just a grain of sand.

Posted by inktrip at 10:30 PM

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I came here with
wings of a lost angel,
wandering,
hoping,
praying,
murmuring
for someone to share
flights with.
But there is only
empty air.

vera

Posted by inktrip at 7:06 PM

There is a mirror that I visit every morning...

Everyday it sees me in uncombed hair and blank eyes.
"You should be grateful," I tell it slowly, tasting each word carefully, playing each word ever so slowly in my mind, my lips opening and my tongue clicking nervously.
Did it hear me?
I hate to think that it just stands there in a clear, liquid face and a rigid, solid body.
There must be something behind it.
I pray that there is something behind it, something behind my reflection.
A world maybe.
Or an ocean.
If its lifeline relies on a face it catches every morning, then it must be very full by now, maybe even barely able to hold itself with its fullness.
Maybe it will blow into pieces in front of me.
I would like to see what each piece looks like.
Would it hold my eyes?
a strand of hair?
hands?
legs?
nails?
Would it hold my heart?
Or my brain?
Or maybe when it shatters, it liquefies - a slow, silver flood of droplets of eyes, nose, lips, teeth, fingers, nails, veins...
Would ecah shattered piece or each silver drop tell a story?
I wonder if every time I stare at it, it absorbs my silence, or the air that comes out of me that paints white clouds on its face.
"You should be grateful;" I say it because I believe it might be happy to welcome me every morning - at least a soul visits it.
The mirror seems to have its own stories though.
It stares back at me and tells me the same thing - "You should be grateful."
But I cannot answer it.

'sorry that i had to post it here.
liyo, this is for you to read.

vera

Posted by inktrip at 6:53 PM

helpless

I step onto the street
and I fall with the hesitance
of a scared cat
among screeching tires,
or a hidden sun
among dark clouds.
The pavement is wet and hard,
my body dragged
among flattened bodies of animals
in cake-dried blood;
dragged along the rain-washed,
sun-dried paths reeking of sour smell,
as though rain itself is vinegar,
pouring down the scarred flat surfaces
that lay suppine -
helpless.

vera

Posted by inktrip at 6:50 PM

Sunday, June 19, 2005

wah...

and i don't know if i like this, but it's to compensate for my lack of lyrical input as of late...

“She needs a new pair of eyeglasses
with black rims wrought of plastic
for her to better see the world
the world;
the people who live and go about it.
She dons modern spectacles…
of not so real glass…
to hide her wide wandering eyes
from other sights there yonder
—or so she likes to think.
three years, five years…
four years and two,
she donned the eyes beneath
a black-framed pseudo sheath.
She needs a new pair of eyeglasses
with black rims wrought of plastic
for fear the thoughts spill over
from the rather human exterior.”

sucky.
pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Posted by inktrip at 10:52 PM

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Petal

I picked up a petal
from the window sill today
and it felt like
the softest thing in the world
I wondered from what tree
it came fromand if its fellow petals
were missing it
I felt through its velvet redness
and smelled, under my runny nose
the faint but terrible fragrance
of its memory
I wondered what the petal thought of me
or the mild disease I had
as I fixed it into the iron pendant
of a borrowed necklace
I wore it happily,
as if I were a hunter,
proud of his game
It stayed there for a while
comfortable under my neck,
sometimes it would fly
as though I'd blown on itfrom a sneeze
and when it hit the ground,
it would call me
with a whispered squeak
to pick it up again
Then I understood
that the petal was not an it.
It wasn't a thing after all
It was alive,or still alive
and it had a name,
a boy's name
the petal was a he.
He was a child.
And as soon as I realized
these few facts,
he flew once again
away from the cold metal
away from my hot breath
I looked for him,
not hearing the lightest sound
from the grey cement floor
he wasn't there,
I couldn't find him
and when I looked up
everything was red.

-russ-
http://readruss.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 1:59 PM

Friday, June 10, 2005

Rat

The humble rat is at it again,
skimming through bathroom floors
into bathrooms for a fresh look
He glides along walls of glass,
dodging vertical life-forms
extending into the hot air above
With his view from his plump body,
he watches with a menacing smirk,
he knows their sweat wet shoes
and their fevered undergarments
With his tail, he touches them,
proud to spread his own plague

The humble rat is quick and clever,
he walks as though he is running,
overtaking wealthy fragrances
with his filth and violent odors
The humble rat is quick and clever,
he sees their swift little glances
and repels them with his black hide
The humble rat is quick and clever,
creeping through merchandise
hunting for the cheapest munch,
heavy and satisfying
The humble rat is quick and clever,
dressed, fed, and happy, human-like,
eating and walking amongst them
The humble rat is quick and clever,
he is a rat nontheless.

-russ-

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 1:33 PM

Cloud Ridden

Riddled
by the soft angles
of your angry face
and the hazy cloud
that clout
the bright questions
of your queen eyes,
I rest,
unresolved,
in my dream
Cradled by the cream
and feathered wisps
of your clever winds,
Gently rocking
my quiet ruckus

-russ-

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 11:58 AM

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

My silence is that of a shattered glass

I walked the streets alone.
It was a day of emptiness emptying itself
right through me.
A double blade cutting through my hands
that cover and wipe my stained eyes.
I was a faceless soul with an untraced map
walking on air-borne steps that cut the streets.
Sometimes i want to drown in this silence,
a floating symbol of death within easy grasp.
yet my silence was that of a shattered glass.
I picked up the pieces of sudden peace
one by one -
and they wound me,
afraid to let go of my pain.

- vera
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 10:23 AM

If sadness were to speak of my beauty

If sadness were to speak of my beauty,
I wish for you to see me,
to pore through me.

It is only through my sadness -
my silent lilies sleeping in the waters of my decay,
that you will come to me.

If sadness were to speak of my beauty,
would you come nearer - finally,
as though my eyes that live in springs of pain carry you?

I do not wish for you to bare yourself in silent mourning,
even with me, even with my heart beside yours -
it will still be the death for both of us.

Our story flows in the dead of the night,
opening only when blackness spreads
like an everlasting roof of secrets.

Or if sadness were to speak of my beauty,
perhaps then I share my death with no one.
Not even with you.

- vera
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 10:22 AM

I sent my kiss through the night

I sent my kiss through the night
with only the cold air
to carry it.
In the dark
I sent it,
as innocent and pure as the first
faint black,
seeping through the blaring white vastness
of you and your lover.

- vera

Posted by inktrip at 10:19 AM

Monday, June 06, 2005

Monday Breakfast

What is there to say of Monday?
It is hot toast and I am yellow butter,
sizzling on the rough sweetness of bread
All the rest my heart sings for
is either ham or cheese or mustard
Today, it is mustard
tossing me in the air like a banana peel
bluer than Monday midday sky
He is sweet and he is also sour
and here I am flying in this hot turbulence
Why?
Why do I always feel tossed like pancakes
when a man comes sending sweet syrup
into the bland blackness
of my phone screen?
Ah... the smell of sunny-side ups
dancing beneath my nostrils!
And smoothly diffusing-
the sweet, sweet, sour of mustard
from a far away fruit
Once again,
every meal
will be breakfast.

-russ-
readruss.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 12:37 PM

The Cage (Sylvia's bane)

The cage closes in the afternoons
when the light is no longer innocent,
faint and weak, tamed by iron sheets
In the cage, I am asleep. I am asleep.

Away from the ubiquitous brown birds
and from the tree that whispers my name,
I sleep with the creeping old geckos
and the dead rat reeking boredom and regret

I sleep, looking out into the box
that repeats and repeats color and sound,
bad illuminations of an already dimmed world
I sleep until I am sleepy again,

I sleep, drugged by the infinite babbling
of soap and shampoo and prizes
and money and stories of robbers,
merchandise, fame, hate, crime, love

In the cage, I sleep with beautiful things
of plastic and cloth and leather and wood
that talk and walk and think and dance
and cry and sleep only in my dreams

I talk to to them, I move, I walk, I think
I dance, I cry. I eat, I shit, I sleep, I dream,
I wake from nightmares into the nightmare
that is the cage and the air I gasp for

becomes a suffocating madness, unbearable
and every breath inflates my already loose skin
into a black and beautiful balloon
that will one day burst me out of the cage.

-russ-

Posted by inktrip at 11:31 AM

The dead robin

Skulls! Skulls! Skulls! the lizards shout.
A death, a death has come!
Come upon the robin in the east.
Skulls! Skulls! Skulls!

Do angels mourn for wasted pearls
vomitted, and swallowed again?
Swallowed back into guts,
into guts, into worms, into acid.

The robin is dead, holding his pearls
from his mouth, a feather from his wing
two pearls on a feather, the weakling
is dead again, he will die returning

Angels and birds on the left!
Birds and angels on the right!
the robin is dead holding his pearls
Angels are mourning! Oh pearls!

Pearls! Pearls! Pearls!
The angels took his pearls!
Skulls! Skulls! skulls! the birds shout
Shove the pearls back the robin's beak!

Do angels mourn for robins?
They mourn for pearls.
The birds will shout until the moon comes
Meanwhile, wait, dead robin, wait.

-russ-