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if my lip will still be split when the austral summer starts,
and what will we be thinking?
all wrapped in rising sun, coccooning,
throwing all the good things into a bucket of riverness and
Will we want to wake up?
I know I'll want to pour
my slice of eternity into a bottle of coconut essence,
make my foreverafter sweet and tropical,
and if your hands are balsam I can
carve my song in stone,
and I will never die.
But don't you ask yourself
why paper boats always sink, in the end?
I don't think I care.
I think they just sail off to a land without horizon
deep in the underwater of the bathtub.
You'll know when, and
you'll hear me sing a sea shanty, maybe.
I want to take my ship until the end of the river.
I want to see the spring pouring down blossom offerings
into the ritual water, I want
our coast of muck and destruction to be aflame with
I'm a shellfish and my fingernails are painted green,
I'm silent-all-these-years and fallen,
I'm wondering wh
plagafui y volví del fin del mundo por última vez hace dos días,
mi florero se tragó a mi pez otra vez,
pero por lo menos la alfombra está mojada.
cuando sube la niebla no lo puedo creer porque ya no hay más tilos,
así que el té se enfría al lado del gato del vecino,
lo eché hace un mes,
lo maté hace una semana,
pero igual siempre vuelve.
creo que la última tormenta se llevó mis jeans y por eso no están más,
como babilonia, pero todo fue un poco menos ruidoso,
debe ser por los osos de peluche.
todavía no llueve.
voy a prender el regador y entrar el paraguas,
y para el gato, creo que voy a usar veneno para ratas.
si hay sol o no, si hay viento o no,
si es de día,
cuando llegás a las rompientes siempre antes dejaste huellas.
qué es lo que cuentes,
o que lo digas o lo escribas o no lo cuentes,
que lo calles, da igual,
sólo si vivís tenés palabras, sino,
el firmamento entero, pero nada.
da igual si llegaste o no a algún lado,
porque siempre estamos de paso.
Y si la marea no borró nada quizás sepas volver
hasta por el mismo camino que viniste,
y si te recuerdan por ahí hasta te estén esperando,
pero espero que esperes no saberlo nunca,
porque si volviste,
todo lo otro daba igual.
outbooked.I liked the world like it was before it ended
I liked it straight and clean and sunrise,
back when I was sleeping without the sound of
their suggestions playing on a saxophone.
I liked the skies blue and the sea
expecting tempests and wales, I
liked it better without children
I liked the world chaotic not for the chaos but
for the colors, for the
streets at 2am and the spring like
an undergrowth threat.
I liked the world without liking it, but
I knew the river but I didn't know it,
so if this goes to the past, like a letter,
if you find me,
tell me the world's gonna end.
the weary kindI FOUND HER pinned on the Wall,
the weary kind,
a mimesis of protest propaganda colors,
she said she did not write sad things any more.
I'm crossing the river every day,
like a tourist on a day without sun,
under the flyers I think I see the city,
and if she branches she'll be spring,
a goddamn spring shower
binding me with gold bands/
she's a catastrophe,
she's knocking my bricks down with a sickle
and a hammer and a folk song,
under the debris I can see the city,
and now I'm the one pinned under the Wall,
not going any further,
waiting until she finds me.
Das AllesliedI AM
the weary king on the throne of stone,
the northern wind that froze the storm,
the sleepy child that will not sleep,
the nightmare crow on the window sill,
the words the world will not have said,
the secret swept under her bed,
the currents and the fullmoon night,
the wounded knights that could not fight,
the way across the milky way,
the days the earth has left to turn,
the movement of the drifting stars,
the world, I've known it since the start,
the dust that gathers on the hills,
the midnights bathed in snow and chill,
the sparkling eyes, the drying lips,
the precious things you couldn't keep;
the fiddler's green,
a sunday prairy, gold and trees;
an empty road at siesta time,
a wordless song, all songs in one.
the thirteenth hourShe sits on the sofa with thoughts heavy and the city sleeping at her feet, meters below the apartment, a steep dive with a crow's flight.
The pirate ship in her story has just sunken, and nothing in the landscape around can pull it back from fiddler's green, from the ecompassing scent of wet wood. She shivers.
The windows are tall and pure glass. Outside, the night is barely sinking in although it's late, but then again everything is orange and gunmetal pulsating, calling; the allure of rain and raindrops drying on the pavement.
Sometimes she wishes she wouldn't drink her glasses of apple juice so fast, but it's a reflex movement, like refilling the coffee pot and waiting for it leaning against the counter, even when it's already high time to go to bed.
But she just doesn't want to sleep, or at least not yet.
She wishes she didn't see the neighbours going about with their lives, wishes she had only one day left to live to have something certain in her life. But we cannot choose what w
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More