Well I have managed while sick to make sure to expose myself unnecessarily if not daringly to the cold wet air. I have made sure to sit in the most uncomfortable chair available near an opened the window. I have positioned myself in fron of the black mirror just askew enough so as to cause back and neck pain. The only reason I haven’t been smoking has been out of pure laziness. And now after finding some coins in a pair of shorts in a mound of clothes I am ready to continue feeding my already swollen heart. How many people can actually say their heart really hearts? I can touch it like a bruise. And im loveless again, by my own doing of course. Biting the feeding hand. Disgusted at every cell of everything that surrounds me. If I had liquor I would drink it. If I had a gun, it I would fire straight up into the sky. And wait with my mouth open for the bullets to fall. If the sky was glassen I would surely try to break it. If I could summon an earthquake from the Earth I would. If there were a button to push…id prefer a trigger.
Its like that dog in the street you pet on your way to work everyday to the point that one fine day your heart opens up and you say ‘what are you doin? how are you? you hungry?’
Its like that moment when a friendship deepens a liitle and may lead to kiss. When eye contact becomes hands reaching for hands moved by some un-seen force.
The threat of possibility in another human being is quite a thing to behold. A strange anticipation, risk almost always involved.
What happens between between a man and a woman when only hands and eyes communicate?
Is everything to follow a down-grade or a catapult?
Am I looking for love in someone that only wants sex?
What if its the other way around?
All I know is that its nice to have a pair of eyes to dream about, a layer of skin like still water waiting for a pebble touch. A mouth waiting to breath into mine and all that fuel waiting to burn itself into oblivion.
Robert Pape is a leading expert on terrorism and suicide-bombing. He specializes in international security affairs and is a Professor in Political Science, Co-Director of the Program for International Security Politics at the University of Chicago.
Pape claims to have compiled the world’s first “database of every suicide bombing and attack around the globe from 1980 through 2003 — 315 attacks in all” (3). “The data show that there is little connection between suicide terrorism and Islamic fundamentalism, or any one of the world’s religions. . . . Rather, what nearly all suicide terrorist attacks have in common is a specific secular and strategic goal: to compel modern democracies to withdraw military forces from territory that the terrorists consider to be their homeland” (4). It is important that Americans understand this growing phenomenon (4-7). ¹
“[T]he taproot of suicide terrorism is nationalism” not religion (79). It is “an extreme strategy for national liberation” (80)…
View original post 597 more words
I dreamed that a former lover took me by the hair
Wrapped my hair around his wrist
Like a chain.
He beat the people he loved with me,
Beat them bloody
So that they could never hurt him again.
And in the melee
I wondered where he ended and I began.
I called my hairdresser and said,
“Pasha, why did you make my hair golden again,
So that it attracts the attention of thieves
And other people of questionable character?”
“Sanctions, my darling, sanctions,” Pasha said.
“We all have to invest our precious metals on the sly.”
I dreamed that my mother’s television
Detached itself from the wall as gracefully as it could
And volunteered to be my headstone.
My mother shook her head and said,
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised by the situation,
As you know, someone is trying to steal our Arctic,
Just pack it away and…
View original post 208 more words
to be loved is a fucked up thing.
to have it, and then have it taken away…where do i begin…
when i was a kid, i would pull charcoal embers out of the grill with tongs
and lay them into plastic cups of water,
and watch the battle.
now im older and that burning, life creating ember
is in my chest
and its killing me.
I almost forgot that a few hours ago I woke up screaming. The mind works in mysterious ways. As a photographer or image stealing miser, be it by word or by pixel, its hard to actually be in it, living the life and at the same time documenting it. I dont know if my adventures are fruitful or worthy. They sure as hell aren’t in a terrenial way, but maybe theres some beauty in the artistic vein. And even that to the judgement of the 2 second rule. The Gladwellian ‘blink’ law. So, I turn in, another day closed. Nightmares waiting for me. Even to that deep deadly sleep I go as if I was going to work. No rest for the wicked.
With headlights, and lightposts
watching the rythmic scan at my little feet
like an MRI…
the feeling of leaving,
picking a car and creating the distance as we drive away
me in the backshield of a lime-green Plymouth Duster
and going away,
no alcohol, no tobacco, no narcotics…
what was going down.
My practice was Iconic.
So grab yourself by the chi
and no regrets,
nothin pisses me off more than PUSSY POETS.
(sod off in advance wanka)
maybe ill see you later.