Tripping the light fantastic mid indian summer
And really that sums it up succintly.
Ignore all the messy tangles and the hair clogging the drain, because it is 70 degrees and balmy out and the sidewalks are knotted with all kinds of flesh. And I am closing in all kinds of regret, and I am this close to being embalmed in self pity, but I heard a black bird sing and I saw the ungainly egrets falter so smoothly in mid-air, and I told myself that evrything was going to be alright. Not that isn't already. No really, not that isn't already.
It's just all that ruthless clutter that scuttles the mind, and then memory, and then memory comes with it's gigantic snout a rutting in places long neglected, dredging, laying bare. Fuck that, I shall not be beholden to that song or that moment or that year or that man.
I seem to be in a semi permanent stasis of partway drunk and halfway addled recolllection and I am flying nowhere fast, and my voice is full of smoke and I haven't felt fuckable in months. Except when I do, accidentally on purpose, and then it's only the perverse thrill of being sore and exceptionally unhinged in the aftermath, and all the tears that I don't shed, and my fingers reeking of my triumphal bedding, and swell and swelling and yes, and yes and all of that. And I could and would and did saunter into work unshowered and unashamed, verily did I sidle
Yes, well, nevermind. Consequences sans doute to enusue. Onward and everupword to the geektastic, I am disc four of firefly and I so desparately don't want it to end, I only want to ever be a space cowboy. I want to employ rutting in all earnestness and I'd like to be able to curse in Mandarin.
In the mean time I have been spaminated, I keep getting comments from spammers who would like me to purchase their dog food or some such, in an unrelatated note I can't seem to get enough sleep, like there is not enough sleep in the universe.
side note to my ficitious reader, you of the salt and pepper hair and yellow house. The day you broke my heart was my great schism, when my church and my state were forever rent asunder. It was all my fault, I couldn't help but be besotted, I couldn't refrain from total despair, you have been hovering in my dreams of late and though I would like to meet you again, but that is the stuff of dreams and precarious confluence. And that's fine, I'm to shortly to gravitate to the tub, where all I can hope for is flash of scalding heat to rectify my bones and nourish my veins, so that all the sweet blue pulses at my wrists and bluing at junctures, sweet God let it course, let it course, let me be not so dismally alive. Wake me up, wake me up.
I don't wanna wake up when it's over, I only want to breath fire like your friendly neighborhood dragon, everybodies got a soft spot.
And really that sums it up succintly.
Ignore all the messy tangles and the hair clogging the drain, because it is 70 degrees and balmy out and the sidewalks are knotted with all kinds of flesh. And I am closing in all kinds of regret, and I am this close to being embalmed in self pity, but I heard a black bird sing and I saw the ungainly egrets falter so smoothly in mid-air, and I told myself that evrything was going to be alright. Not that isn't already. No really, not that isn't already.
It's just all that ruthless clutter that scuttles the mind, and then memory, and then memory comes with it's gigantic snout a rutting in places long neglected, dredging, laying bare. Fuck that, I shall not be beholden to that song or that moment or that year or that man.
I seem to be in a semi permanent stasis of partway drunk and halfway addled recolllection and I am flying nowhere fast, and my voice is full of smoke and I haven't felt fuckable in months. Except when I do, accidentally on purpose, and then it's only the perverse thrill of being sore and exceptionally unhinged in the aftermath, and all the tears that I don't shed, and my fingers reeking of my triumphal bedding, and swell and swelling and yes, and yes and all of that. And I could and would and did saunter into work unshowered and unashamed, verily did I sidle
Yes, well, nevermind. Consequences sans doute to enusue. Onward and everupword to the geektastic, I am disc four of firefly and I so desparately don't want it to end, I only want to ever be a space cowboy. I want to employ rutting in all earnestness and I'd like to be able to curse in Mandarin.
In the mean time I have been spaminated, I keep getting comments from spammers who would like me to purchase their dog food or some such, in an unrelatated note I can't seem to get enough sleep, like there is not enough sleep in the universe.
side note to my ficitious reader, you of the salt and pepper hair and yellow house. The day you broke my heart was my great schism, when my church and my state were forever rent asunder. It was all my fault, I couldn't help but be besotted, I couldn't refrain from total despair, you have been hovering in my dreams of late and though I would like to meet you again, but that is the stuff of dreams and precarious confluence. And that's fine, I'm to shortly to gravitate to the tub, where all I can hope for is flash of scalding heat to rectify my bones and nourish my veins, so that all the sweet blue pulses at my wrists and bluing at junctures, sweet God let it course, let it course, let me be not so dismally alive. Wake me up, wake me up.
I don't wanna wake up when it's over, I only want to breath fire like your friendly neighborhood dragon, everybodies got a soft spot.
posted by emma at
10:59 PM
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