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Tuesday, July 19, 2005

The Room

Feed me!
the door says
and I come in.

The nest lies beyond
piles of tin and plastic

I look at it

forgotten cave etched with words
from old years of young change

My feet brush floors
of wet color, green and red
The air sizzles
on the skin of my arms
and the dance begins
In the room

the dancer swims
spinning, whirling, splashing
placental fluids out
into primeval greens and reds
into the hum of crickets
into black and violent enigma

The room leads me
the unwilling but free

Feed me! I shout.

The dance stops.
The door shuts.

And the room

diminishes

into

a pulse.

-russ-

Posted by inktrip at 3:30 PM

Saturday, July 16, 2005

performer.

(ey ver... i suppose this is the romantic blush you've been waiting for... it's not very comfortable. grr. struggling again.)

how does it feel
how would you know
you performer
have stolen
the show
out from recesses
deepest stagnations
you’ve found an altar
in thundering palpitations
i write to feel you
i write to let go
i write to say:
“my beat crescendo
much gratitude
much
remembrance
much of the dreams
are subconcious remnants
of unvisited
streams.”
singing
a lost witness in the wind
playing
the
performer captures
and needs your gaze
how does it feel
how would
you know
you performer
have stolen the show
how dreadful it is
“oh, dearest overseer”
that i should become
one of his dreamers

Posted by inktrip at 5:16 PM

Monday, July 11, 2005

...fart... world end solution?

world end solution


i wish not to follow-

i gazed, but for a moment,
into a darkling crevasse
it lead into my brain…
and saw a face
a man
a thing–
imagination-sent
eyes too kind—-
they were to be my bane.

ah!–but for the moment…
that gaze lingered
into a waterfall eternity
the deluge of dreams
surreal, untrue;
suppression-bred.

–a gaze… into uncalled doting
unwanted adoration
for a face
that was but a nonety
in the deepest, dustiest
recesses of my rumination.”

-pat
http://pat.pixelled.com

Posted by inktrip at 9:29 AM

throwing myself down the cliff

i was wondering if i have denied myself for something i can't put a name on, for so long a time already that i have gradually destroyed the yellows of my days - the suns, the stars at night, or even the yellows on roads and plains, specks of candy wrappers maybe,
or wild flowers displaced in the city sides -

all of them gone.





- VERA
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 9:20 AM