toodles!


darling thinks a spectacledarling thinks a spectacle of murdered shapes on the table and a violin of scissors relating an autumn collage and tells them "no breakage, no way to let the present splinter. just keep it continuous keep it feeble"darling thinks a spectacle
but her notion is something more. and a ceiling fan keeps
time like an arrythmic heart. i trust it completely. at least for these copper hours that are always diminished it is only enough.


nothing morenothing more than November, no one other than you. regarding the horizon at once a smoky gray stack of engines churning rain and a collision of ravens flown into an empty factory.nothing more
the sky reveals a steel contentment; disrobes its vestment of storms and is faceless. morphine numb. at once clean and reptilian. a chameleon hidden within the air when scales of ice grow like lichen.
afterwards nothing else is warm, we are as polished as winter trees and spider legs. when the bell rings at a distance it sinks thr


the arrivalthe arrival comes not from the expected shroud, the groundless shroud, never veiling my shoes. it mushrooms from the hills over the backs of long buried dinosaurs and makes a crooked grid of orange orchards vanish.the arrival
it's a kimono for moonlight, a colony of ghost coral that strangles the sunken vessels of our homes. from our speckled windows we see ribbons drifting, chasing each other into the milky confines of night. hungry for the spaces between t


sanctuarythere was a sanctuary, parents voices over a leaning wooden fence as something to be thrown very far away (a stone that looked like the severed beak of a vulture, perhaps) there was a playhouse-- more of a shed actually but just as real to me, and her, and occasionally them-- and a rotting green carpet four inches deep, pieces removed from the roof like teeth in a nightmaresanctuary
eventually we outgrew it, like writhing things from a soft body we left holes in the weak walls. a second m


The Orkney SeaHer truth;The Orkney Sea
alone it spoke for two, and walked in nameless grace beneath the widow's solemn steps. She loyally paced, watching the ocean and muddied her worn pale slip from sweeter days. Carefully she walked the edge of the Orkney shore. Her face and brow fought to captivate her doubt, and eyes that told of goodness spent &n
I loved House of Leaves, and have been meaning to reread it...
--
Breath and Death. We all have at least two things in common.
--
--
| ::Forget Your Memories, Remember Your Future:: |
"The Departure of Everything Real, is the Arrival of Everything True"
-E E Cummings
--
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance
As those move easiest who have learnt to dance."
-Alexander Pope
~Writers
I'll be keeping a watch on any new stuff.
--
| ::Forget Your Memories, Remember Your Future:: |
"The Departure of Everything Real, is the Arrival of Everything True"
-E E Cummings
I like your ideas, but the words don't flow, and they don't seem to be chosen very carefully. There is no technique -- and I don't mean the kind of bullshit technique you learn in a class somewhere, I mean a personal voice. Sometimes it almost felt like you were reciting. Imagery had potential, but you stiffened it with mediocre metaphors. Still, your ideas more than compensated for this. I'll be keeping my eye on you.
--
ACCIDENT RETARD ACCIDENT RETARD ACCIDENT RETARD
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