A book in which I am a forgotten chapter

You are an epic book novel

and I am going to read you cover to cover,
I'll get paper cuts; your pages with smear with my blood.

The binding will break apart. I'll leave you in the rain;
and dry you on my window seal in the warm spring sun.

Some pages I'll skip some I'll come back to twice.

you'll grow old and fall apart, and I'll laugh as my hands
fail to open your pages.

I know this is a failed message because I'll never be in your book,
but I will always read.

Musical Muse of the moment

so good

I don"t know how many times i've quoted this and no body knows what i'm talking about, *sigh*

Musical Muse of the moment

Is it ok if i want to live inside your mind?

Trains speeding in and out of city tunnels,
Busy movement of dancing appendages,
speaking to the morning dew with anticipation
Texture and shape a constant evolution of movement,
sorting through the heat.
It's a fictitious business name or sometimes
its blunt and we'll all listen for the escalated
queen of hearts to emerge from the deck.
Ripened fruit is blended, how sweet does it taste?

Too vulgar? It's merely human interaction,
and that is quite natural.

Because sometimes 2005 seems like a dream

"What does it feel like when you inject it in your arm?"

You gazed downward just beneath the brim of your hat, feathering the pages of my Plath book between your torn fingers. There was enough time in the silence to come up with a thousand different stories, the gap in your front teeth was visible as you pondered. And in your low awkward voice you told me about heroin; quite possibly more than I wanted to know. Then, reaching in your pocket, the shiny crumbled foil ball containing your weakness emerged, only for a moment because I turned my head.

"You know; my writing changes" as you held it up, I could see it gleaming in my peripheral vision. We locked eyes, I could tell you were attempting to peak my interest. I broke from your gaze and looked out the door. It was 4AM. I got up and walked out of the corridor and down the stairwell. The plants at night smelled sweet. I picked enough Ginko Biloba leaves for both of us even though i knew i was already alone.

Your high-top converse carried you out the door. All that was left were your words, which I've stopped reading years ago. (That's only half true)

The romanticism of running into you again one day plays in my mind like a worn drum, by this time trying to extract wisdom from you would be a silly move.

You're so fucking smart.

A few days later a letter came, you wrote that you wished you had written something that I wrote and gave me such praise and I fell down in my seat, I smiled. I guess it wouldn't have ever worked, us being friends, and it never will.

I kind of wonder if X is still alive, but then again; he never believed in death in the first place.

Burning Papers

This was written on a folded yellow piece of tablet paper:

A void communication device
silence triggers emotion
microscope examination
death shortly thereafter.
Alien invasion: unwelcome
biopsy report revealed
35mm lens: shutter stuck
film advance broken
photo neg splice
segregated frames.
c-41 break up

post scene manual development
stop bath bitterness
fixer establishes final demise

I wrote that in 2006...
So where has my style gone from then? how has it changed?
I've been doing some writing, we'll see how much it's changed since then,
so ready to get back in the game. My pen feels like a foreign object, and i love that feeling.

You're a mountain I wish to climb.
I'm black and white, You're color.
I can see the contrast, the depth...
A long road.
We both want to touch each other's bodies,
like some sort of curious masturbation
A tendency to walk in opposite directions.

you're heading away; soon it will be time to fly.
you're heading into the darkened horizon,
drinking hard liquor, and piercing your skin with ink.
beautiful pictures across the skin's landscape,
touching each line and soaking in the colors.
Trying to grasp each hue, an odd feeling as it enters the eye.
It quietly tells me that there is not a chance in hell,

"In who's hell?" I say out loud to myself while I push it into 4th,
I've gone a little mad again, pissed actually.
pissing drunk, far too many times, standing at the alter of regret,
and asking questions that paranoia keeps transcribing to me,
She's a fucking quack that paranoia, makes the brain turn to mush.