So haimish and brilliant (in that familiar sort of way) is the place you occupy- almost like heartburn- that the breath of another on my skin provokes within me a chill guaranteed to thrust the deficient suitor into the crocodile’s mouth, metaphorically speaking. Isolation is peculiar yet effective. I apologize, but I’m impervious; I’ve been erecting walls for as long as I can remember now. I let you in once, and you’ve yet to see yourself out. The need for loftier barricades is evident then, is it not?
It’s all I can do.
Lift, Stack, lift, stack, stack, stack, then burn- not the walls, but the memories. The barriers are steadfast these days. Somehow, though, the furnace I’ve contrived out of necessity has yet to set you aglow, and I haven’t had the fortune of watching you transform into carbon dioxide along with the other nonsense set out to burn. You thrive in my memories. You’re inescapable.
Well, if I’ve learned any one thing for certain it’s that you can’t let anyone in or they’ll make themselves at home.
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there." — Charles Bukowski, Bluebird (via showslow)
(Source: chrysanthems, via showslow)
A devastating battle against mediocrity in every capacity in which you are destined, from the onset, to lose.
vacuousness,
except the divine seeds of life,
pinpoints of illumination
ceasing to quiver with illusion
only half-existing and in solitude,
staining the abyss
like the telling rings within a chalice
in which wine, long forgotten,
remains unbridled by pestilence.
Unclutching.
