3. April 11

    This was an era of fatal goodbyes
    Of lost souls and wandering sighs
    Broken through the skin and into the cold
    A thunderous applause for all that she sold

    Such take and take was no desired transaction
    Hardly a cause for a major attraction
    Without the reflection from the unseeing eye
    She saw not herself, but herself as a lie

    And so you could say she was never in view
    Not from the nest, from which later she flew
    Not from the world, which mirrored her own
    Left in the dark, left all alone

    These years at best were lightening’s pride
    Built in a storm before thunder that cried
    And roared and broke her down to the ground
    With piercing screams cut off from true sound

    She cursed and cursed the unseeing eye
    Which gave her life and then sent her to die
    The pain shattered her spirit and broke her bones
    A living dead, covered in stones

    But then nature grew from out of the black
    Sunlight slowly moved in through the crack
    Faint at first, but a growing fusion
    Of light and dark and its marvellous allusion

    Ahead there is fire and movement and life
    Which could have never existed without the unseeing’s strife
    So perhaps it is misery that brings alchemy, then gold
    That grips ordinary souls with its hold

    Turning them into power and force
    Up from the roots of that magical source
    And if this is the case, then both she and the eye
    Were sent underground for their story to fly


  4. My belief is that art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment, and one another. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.
    — Joyce Carol Oates

  5. The Good Son




  8. Breaking up

    It’s not you,
    It’s US.




  11. He tried not to think but only to endure.
    — Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

  12. This is

    living in the heart of betrayal.


  13. I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life.
    — Voltaire (via psychedelic-orgasm)

    (Source: vaunting, via eniolio)



  15. never be the same again.