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He entertains a notion at the juncture in your hip—where the pastel bruises came to lie and a moment’s appreciation lingers and precipitates. a movement so trite harbors no dexterity, it remains the common triviality and your utmost despair.
there’re these chemical reactions in the recesses of your brain—they claim to life, claim to mind—but they don’t. an irrevocable shiver and your predominant wither. there’s a faint finality in the way you snap to, ‘cause there’s an itch in your blood—the not-so-socially-acceptable ferality in the way that you can snap others with such ease. A love so trite harbors no drug—it’s better this way, though, in the end. take it back to a place where you understood, where the clouding of the iris reigns less detrimental. He’ll wait there, wait there for you in the place where there’s still ghosts in the trees, where the foundation was set and the in from gray became. there you ‘n him will find the bones of the earth, and that last sentiment will complete. take it back to a place where the sludge stuck to and the breakdown could be felt. where the clinging to life and its malformed malignancy wasn’t so loud, so anguished, so tirelessly lost. he’ll be there to rub his fingers against the last remains of that something decomposed—it was one of your favorites—and tell you that you’re beautiful—always have been, always will be. It’s okay though, ‘cause he’s already given up. Given up on the labor in your breath, the radioactivity of your bloodstream. You pass it off as an abrupt fixation, the darting of his eyes. He’ll be there to remind you of the time when the outpour of blood had been purposeful—when you had been a man of the hour, year, month. The coughing would stop then, maybe. There was a time when you were concise, not so gregarious, but infinitely there. You were always there, but not so much present. But now with the loss of your hair and the loss of your voice, maybe it’ll all fall away. You’ll fall away. And there’s No human metaphor to explain how you fell. He’ll remain to celebrate your victories, triumphs, risks, and aptitude for the worst kind of feeling: the ones that would claw at your chest along with you, reap a pattern into the fringes of your soul. and perhaps it was the break of saline down the center of your cheek that signified in itself a break of an entirely different kind—one that couldn’t be hidden with the swipe of deft fingers as they cleared the substance that had once held so much more than the fundamentals of a saline compound. take it back to a place where you weren’t so tired, when he could step inside. He’d trace the infinitesimal markings on your hands until they became larger, until they illustrated a life whereas it took such a gesture to center the feeling. He’d trace the holes in your skin—the steadfast reminder of that place back in the time you were so lonely. And perhaps, in all probability, you still are. He’ll trace the tendons, the obstructions, protrusions—he’ll love you, he swears, he’ll be good if you are. back to a place where you held up in thought and congenial misunderstandings; that outstanding buffer of ignorance is what ultimately separated you from him…and you know. You knew, but didn’t tell him until you were close to losing it. It all started there: the magnanimous defeats, letdowns, accumulation of cough drop wrappers and partisan contributions to a place neither of you cared to stay in for more than just a little while. And you were weak. It started in a place where all you could see was that foot in front. Of the brother? Never to be known. Two and a lengthy time between found you there on the floor, he helped you to stand. You were found, and he held you, felt through the short strands—they withered and withered there. It’s okay though, ‘cause you’ve already given up. the lacquer and the anti-ozone—gone with the eyeliner bruises and unadulterated letdowns. Gone with the polish—it was a shaky process anyway—and gone with the metal fastenings and acclamations to a society that didn’t much very care. And you knew from the beginning—knew what it all meant—what it was all for. When it didn’t matter then, it mattered now. did you feel yourself slipping away? Back to a time when you were just a melancholic tyro, a harbinger of loose will and loose understandings and loose perceptions. It locked you in a pillory, a regular day-to-day occurrence that only resulted in a swift inebriation, a blatant high, and a fattening of your wallet. The machinations…machines, they stayed on, never to cease, and maybe you weren’t any better for it. There’s a three-figure notion lost in a protean moment, the outermost vulgarities accompanied by the least sincere of smiles. But you were his perfect constant, the acidic notion to drip unwarranted from his tongue. The one to blame and the one to rely. The stipulation with an initiative—you’ve become so weary, tired…stolid. Misery never did anything for you—you acknowledge it insatiably—but he isn’t helping. Then we won’t be any good, will we? Through his threadbare vindication and sultry goodbye’s there’s a mark of finality in the way he grins just a little tritely, a bit more sadly. You scratch a little more with each passing day, bare your teeth a little more at the state, thinking it might very well be your last breath, and it should be. But it isn’t. he reminds you of that every day. fingers crawl against your arm. He traces the lines, the more threadbare markings of your existence. It sifts into your conscious like the untreatable disease, an unguarded athymia to your pulled tight grey. They notice—the four—and it doesn’t help. Everything bulges a bit, your eyes darken, and it’s hard to register now, betwixt from between. you can’t quite figure how it became this way, now, you’re just a little insane—just a little diminutive. He reminds you of that every day. But you don’t. it’s a perfect ebony now—no more lying—and it’s not so long—but he still rubs it into your head. There’s a thumping against your chest. No, We won’t be any good love, we’ll be grand.
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the tantamount fixture at the apex of your structure. the inherent reservation at the base of your skull. the myxoma of your heart, the fringes of your definition, the monotonous existence—the paramount defeat. the decomposing asunder and the toad of the under and the chemical real built just beneath. peer into the ephemeral structure—bite the blocks at the base, you’ll see: the Decomposition Disposition and its inherent reflection. he’s the misguided misanthrope in the midst of the matter—the place of the prevalent aspiration and the addled perspective. with the unlikelihood of character he’s the modern misconception, the unduly contrived fixation, coalescent of lifestyles. you foreign language, you perverse notion.—but we’re decomposing. the operative noun in the uncooperative feat. the systematic tension, regulated misery, inoperable defeat. the deliberate conclusion, foreshadowed intuition, the way the earth rolls and bucks and pulls, the likelihood of the unlikely mistake. take it back to a position where your thoughts became brittle, where he held everything betwixt and between. it’s the blatant undulation in the fabric of your wrists, the sign to life but not your departed. an innocuous tenant, whereas all you can see is that foot in front. Of the other? Never to be known. Guide it well, right into your chest—through the bone—through his steady acclaim. Mumble for his sake, it helps the feeling. Mitigate. deep, deep, deep, he’s deep in the red valley. it won’t save you in the end. An addled head and the feeble casing, secure the right, secure the promise. Back to the place where you became enigmatic—problematic. because day old peanut butter sandwiches aren’t too hard. and neither is he. bleached and preached, pierced in the flesh through and through. The unmistakable wither, abrupt erosion, synonymous with the great defeat. maybe when you’re not so ugly—maybe when you’ve relearned how to stand, how to walk, how to run…About face. ‘cause you’re just an olfactory boy living in an unsatisfactory world. But you can’t reach him. he’s the pregnant silence at the back of your throat, the kaleidoscope ideal at the wring of your neck, the maelstrom splurge in the depths of your bowels. the dark and dank are his steadfast companions, prevalent in view of the numerous eye. the four though—the four—he has NOFUTURE. It’s the clawing to life and its misguided malignancy, to conditioned ideals and withdrawn observation. the voice of a prophet, the words of a capital; the systematic anguish and a titillating scream. the fatal believer and his band of malnutritions—obscene, lustful—oh prevalent drug addiction. A malformed justice and its exultant contributions—exalt, moan, groan. He’ll scream with you, guide you in, he’ll open up his gates. Obscure notions of a better day he’ll whisper into your ear. You’ll have to believe him as you entertain a fistful of hair—he’s always happy here. happy here with the unholy matrimony of skin on grazed, marked, scarred, healing skin. the undeserving rhythm and his disconcerting quiet. crooked-tooth grins are the most beautiful here. character, he says, and you have to agree, the prophet is always right. And he’s the unorthodox chemist—to mix him and you—volatile nerves and a toxic aftertaste. Problematic catalysts, but you don’t care—because he’s so beautiful here. A telltale sign to life, a clever copy—but he’s alone. A perpetual of the rhythm—a deal with the devil for his voice. Once he loses his head, he’ll lose his voice, and everything in the in between. But it’s all the same to him: your mark, your mission, your brand, your scar. It’s innate: this justifiable desertion, this disillusioned disintegration, the divine paradox in which you seethe. an antagonistic retribution that you struggle so blindly to complete. he's up against the world—but mostly himself—and everything in between. It’s okay, though, because he’s already given up. it's the kaleidoscope complex unraveling at the heart of his veins, the taciturn collective and its vast’s abolish. Unravel, unravel, he’ll unravel you till he’s all you’ve got left. Because all he can do is live by the school of hard knocks—scrape up his knees/elbows—chin and chest. He’ll punch himself in the gut a few good times—paint the walls in his own make-up dye—the die of his existence. He’s the die of your existence. He’ll play with the wording a bit—quip with a dual entendre. But his self-reverence has finally diminished—he’s far past the point of magnanimous defeat. he’s the beater, the user and abuser. the victim all the same. Maybe when he’s not so tired, maybe you could sink under his skin. disintegrating as it grows—the manifested melancholy and its trivial tribesman. He could sink under your skin. And perhaps, when he awoke to the knowledge that it was all that he had ever really needed, he would truly be awake. Maybe when you’re not so mistaken, maybe when you start doing it right. Maybe when the shiver of something knew has left your bones—maybe then, he’ll finally live. He’s not so abberant, not so misunderstood. The agony, commissary, wrath that he ultimately leads to—they’re not so sheltered, not so hidden. The pulsing undulation at the fabric of his wrists—not so fervent. not so entirely strong. Maybe when he finally loses his voice it’ll all fall away. He’ll fall away. And he’s the multiplicative initiative, the protozoan—it’s always better on the asphalt. It’s one of the inexplicable facets to his dynamic—the remnants of a retrograde amnesia interlaced with eyeliner bruises. caked, cut, and anguished—bleary-eyed and dead to the world. He’ll murmur inconsequentials—bashful and sterilized, ignorant to the way that your undyed hair contrasts with his own. In the corrupt republic: there are terms of anguish that can’t be expressed in words. They say he belongs in an asylum (you and me along with him) as he screams with abandon—an exquisite ephemeral—but they can’t contain it. He stirs and turns and only asks but one thing—love him to the marrow of his bones.
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I think I've found it. I think I have found the reason behind all of my creative shortcomings: the thing that stops me dead when any grand venture of art or form is undertaken. Why I may have the means of aesthetic or principal (I can draw decently, and write just fine...) I don't have the imagination or creative inspiration/spark to back it up. For instance... when I draw (characters or the like) I'm unable to venture into the spontaneous, relative unknown...I'm stuck emulating and re-emulating the same characters or people that have been cemented into my head for a while... one's that I'm familiar with. I rarely venture into any discomfort zone, and am therefore disabled. It's the same with Typography... I have a sense of what I want to do with the type, but I often get stuck on the content. I can create spontaneous blurbs of whimsical text at random, but they're hardly useful as they only make sense to me, and are therefore irrelevent. The only trouble I've ever had with livejournal layouts made by ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) milou_veronica are that they require a lot of literary content to make them beautiful. My posts are habitually short and brief. I can't seem to fill out any of her layouts (excluding the one used in mousoukyou) because I write without brevity. | |
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