conceptandexecution

“your head is as good as wasteland, if you fail to tend to it correctly.”

That’s alright; Nature reclaiming what belongs to her, you can hardly blame.

One turn of phrase from you is already equal to a mouthful of thorns. Spit them in a circle, wait for them to puncture you as you tread.

“Almost fiction”, he drawls. That sounds like another name for an elaborate lie.

Watch for the powdered glass with those grains of salt.

“you can keep this as an endurance shot.”

27 Apr 2012 07:43

were you watching?

i felt you there, like a fragile shroud.

bluthund

seem to have acquired more followers despite the near-silence, thank you for your patience / merci pour votre patience / muchas gracias por su paciencia.

project 366 is on hiatus due to various reasons, but i will continue to update with other ~things~ as mentioned previously.

is it possible to jinx the word-count by revealing it?

Onwards. Nonlinear narratives don’t just write themselves… cough.

Hey
are you there?
I’m on some dust-clotted aged worm
burrowing into the gut of the city,
cursing circumstance.
I’m thinking, damn those covetous grey ghost-lights,
with every dry tap.
I’m thinking, the bother and the bloom
of heartlessness -
oh, god, is it worth it?
I’m thinking we drag each other up
onto that battered pedestal,
who knows what gathers in those recesses.
I’m thinking, you’re so damn intemperate,
that bottled composure, yeah,
it has it’s own garish platform.
I’m thinking, “kiss you once kick me back”
the transient capture of it between my teeth
I’m thinking, I wonder how those welts have aged
as well as you
When you reopen them with every detail of your tongue

Apologies, and other beverages

The current lack of content on here is really a positive thing- it means I’m writing. Which ought to be a relief, since that deadline is staggering swiftly towards me with a determined grimace. Here comes the whip.

49/366

jump/don’t jump

48/366

The devil crept into the palm of his hand,
fleshed out anguish with doubt.
They courted,
dissected each other’s dialogue,
marked time in a shared tongue
at low medicinal volume.
(drinking to the exiled friend; appetite, a background murmur)
Sustenance in bruxism/self-cannibalising rituals,
forfeiting needle for vessel.
The lenience of both mouths
strung them up together
(sketching over you, she can’t hear you-
she’s with “god” now.)
Quaintly, quaintly,
wren heart, shoebox ribcage,
and he looms over, wielding arrows, looms over —
misfire, painted in your likeness.

thisisnotfororaboutyou

Knee-target birthday bruises on slit-rope legs.

The shade of our fifth quiet shot flickered a complimentary shade in your shadowed cerulean; onlookers sallow with envy for your ash and musings, wire hanger shoulders.

-God damn, I still don’t feel like I’m winning. If I ever won at all.-

You suck in the narrow seconds of the coldest hour, gin and sobs evaporating on your laughter. So obstinate, so gallingly perfect. From master to martyr in a frame.

- …believe me; I will tell you when I know. -

Exhaustion reached its zenith. Worse than the temptation was the stark tangibility, a membrane of insecurities and intermittent physical distance which pitched us back to reality. Your guttural tone of defeat demanded that we dine off the jet lag excuse, for a little longer.

The delicacy of such a fraught silence always leaves me appreciative for what you are not.

It was a fair observation that we had been atrociously matched. Disabled by truth; part youth grievance, part stagnant, stubborn heart. You swore to save a spare matchstick, whilst I kept the patient candle.

- Well, who the hell needs more sycophants? - we agreed. Enough of them are ridden and thrown as it is.

The railings on the fire escape rang with the broken-knuckle-awkward way you play guitar, the knot of your body endearing as a newborn colt, propped against the rough ironwork. You paused at the penultimate chord, biting the swell of your lower lip at the minor key cliché.

- Run out of fucking cigarettes- your flatline sneer informed me, with an urgent gesture. We never waited to witness where the dear old instrument shattered.

Where have I fallen, to meet you?