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CAVEAT
There is a place called |
March 11, 2011
I told you the story about how I stepped over broken glass. The macabre fascinates your senses rarely stimulated by similar spectacles in your own white-washed world. To pursue this career of moderation, you dole out graces in shot glasses, small doses since your undivided attention is a straight-up affair devoid of nuances. I, the fool, tried to take it and ended in a conflagration: burn patches in my throat, a flare in my gut but careful never to spill a single drop. I wonder if you always taste like distilled violence. Perhaps this longing is why I see you behind the bar bathed in--rose quartz. Colored glass can easily shatter and you've made it clear that money and wits and ponderings of love-lost drunks cannot draw you away from these rows of expertly bottled platitudes. A dash of sympathy, stir in a solemn smile and you have a drink for that soul by the darkest corner gazing at you--my benediction slaking this thirst for something pure. SP 1.15.10 blue rogue
May 06, 2009
It’s not so bad, really. Just another scrape on the allegorical knees stumbling over how perfect you could have been. After all, for me, there are only sighs, silent eruptions of longing coalescing into something hard: bullet-like and never ever to be bitten because of one reason or another. Cuts like these never matter. I bought one hundred band-aids printed with yellow smileys-- in a strange Comedian-esque fashion. It helps to grin while pieces of you meld against my soul like candle-tallows on naked skin--burning a mark that leaves a space of purity even when it hurts. All of these happened before, again, tomorrow, next time I wrack my head for reasons why you should stay. I never come up with anything, except, to shove back into my pockets fists that clench tightly holding the radiance of our hours, when my world becomes utterly still, wrapped up and alone within the expanding, unconscious joy of your laugh. blue rogue
November 26, 2008
In all the empty places inside me the words rang, solid filling in between stretches of longing, of hours waiting. This time I cannot mute the tremors as they shatter every tenuous chord linking my self-worth to the fingers that used to strum my soul with the songs of angels. I close my eyes, tuning out inner wails long enough to compose the harmony that will make the replay more gut-wrenching like two hands on either side of my head as they slam against my ears: To Hell With You. Now, every syllable is seared, captured perfectly into notes of violent sadness I have felt myself become. So, for the last time: “Play it again, Sam. There is no going back from where you’re headed”. blue rogue
November 16, 2008
Her claws stung from grabbing shells on the wet sand left behind by fishers long gone from the afternoon oyster hunt. Swooping low and close, still her eyes catch blurred images of surfaces. Within her grasp, the ridges scrape raw blisters, make her wonder if oysters are formed by rotting. Shaking sand and dreams from feathered limbs, she ventures out. Strong beaks sweep past faltering claws, clutch hard. The small armor head snaps, the outer shell bone gutted. She cracks a smile, a brief cursive like the upward arc of a bird on air -- the one who just swallowed one more hope. The one shrilling away the silence. -------------------- I was kind of wondering what will spur me to write again. I never expected it to be peer pressure. How juvenile is that? Hehe. Heh. And Rax, I owe you one, too. *wink* Senility, thy name is... what did you say your name was? blue rogue
April 08, 2008
to the edge of the horizon, his vision can map the distance between fallen leaves and the V of geese that fly home. When his calculation never arrived at the same point in time and space , he concluded: this proximity between human bodies must not be a question of fate but of intent. He will prove that intimacy exists merely between the interim of consciousness. After some time, he would murmur in frustration as to why he is off tangent when he tries to angle his own way within the radius of another smile, never factoring how each degree of affection always comes in pairs. blue rogue
March 23, 2008
of loneliness. A map of scars that healed by themselves, snaking their way between ridges and slopes that have gone too jagged. I want to move the mountains that wall away the valley where you keep your sighs all the things that make you ache, hidden in some make-shift grove only the child in you can ever see. Way up here, where I hover above your lips, the air is too thick for words to travel. My senses, in some semblance of calm, can only roar while the ground rises up to swallow fragile constructs of sound and comfort and worship until all that is left is a trembling of plateaus, leveled by the sleets of your first rain my vision foraging wetness, tongue tunneling soul. blue rogue |
