my midnight thoughts are scratchy like old records
pauses, cracks, holes - rips in sanity
jumping to conclusions that have no reason
how could i blame the needle? how dare i
pin a fault on the syringe that keeps me alive
(although they say it dulls your eyes, kills my spark)
disjointed, unconnected, an unfinished puzzle
emotionally blank and missing seventeen pieces.
and don't lie to me; love can't complete
a broken toy like me. but don't worry, love -
i always carry my own little repair kit
(but sometimes my hands are too shaky to inject)
i've forgotten what it was to fear god and death
or to wish for better things; shooting sta
this bus is for dreamers by aliceburgundy, literature
Literature
this bus is for dreamers
this bus is for dreamers,
but they call it the 436.
people line the aisles and
slump against the frosted
windows, pressing shoulders
and heated cheeks to cold
glass, staring at nothing.
"where are you heading?"
the driver asks me, and
i want to ask him when he's
going by the opium fields,
but instead i hold out my
change and speak over the
passing cars; "st. clement's."
he nods, and i don't know
if i imagine his swollen
irises flickering back to
the wheel, black lakes
of euphoria within thin
rings of blue; in any case
i head to my seat slowly.
i clasp the backs of seats
to keep my balance on my
way to the seat i alway
stop with the fucking clichés.
flames don't dance; they gorge
themselves stupid on oxygen
and stagger uselessly all over
the coal and crumpled newspaper.
he doesn't make your heart beat
faster; he makes you regret all
the stupid things you said, and
all the clumsy things you did.
snow doesn't glitter; it reflects
the sun so your eyes ache and you
miss the tangle of sheets, pillows
and blankets that you just left.
you're not going to have a happy
ending; there will always be times
when you wish for an end, a fast
reprieve; escape is so inviting.
no, not everything is as perfect
as i desperately want it to be.
i wish i c
how are you, whisky boy?
your eyes appear to be the
color of old amber, and i
can't help myself from
searching for mosquitos
and other bugs stuck inside.
a tiny bottle is always
tucked inside your faded
denim jeans; and even though
i know you're bad for me
it's hard to stay away from
your tree sap charms, love.
all too soon our lips press
together and do not part 'til
morning - your sticky hands
trap me and your heavy breath
entices me - delusions of love
cross my mind, yet i welcome them.
somehow the thought of becoming
a part of you doesn't seem so bad.
you can be the resin, the precious
amber stone; and i will be you
oh, it was just another
violet sky this morning.
lilac clouds licking against
the edges of my sight
and lavender sparrows
calling out to their mothers.
you roll from my bed and
pull on your clothes;
the sun shines through the
glistening condensation on
my window and your skin
sparkles with its purple rays.
but you don't notice.
in seconds you have left
my bed, my room, my house
and I am left to stare at
blinding lilac light, wishing
for a morning star.
I suppose you'll be back
after work, sometime, or
tommorow; when the world
has taken the silver blue joy
out of your veins, and I am
left again to save your soul.
leave
out there on the bluffs of summer you touched me so deeply my bones shook and awoke my sleeping lust. it's been years since I felt like this - my fingers glued to your cheeks, your lips, your jaw; pressing against each other so closely, so roughly, I'm afraid something will give and we'll both fall into emptiness and green grass; oh, but you're so unethical. so unpromising. nothing but the prettiest face and the most prejudiced of minds. but still, where is the harm in falling in love for five minutes?
5th November 2010 - 1:27am
I'm burning.
I can't remember if I've slept yet; the past few hours feel like a blur of tossing and turning, throwing my covers off and opening the window as wide as it can go, of soaking a flannel in cold water and laying it over my forehead; I've finally given up on sleep for the time being.
I don't get it - the heating isn't on. The air outside is cool. But my body is saturated with sweat and my eyes feel like they're throbbing; my vision wobbles as I struggle to breathe.
hhaaaahh-huu, hhaahhh-huhh, haaahh-huhhh
I can hear myself wheezing. What -
hhaaaahh-huuh
What's wrong with me?
At the edge of the room
Disappearance of Anne Morgan by aliceburgundy, literature
Literature
Disappearance of Anne Morgan
Tottering in dark blue heels and clutching a gun like you know how to use it, you collapse against a tree like your backbone has turned to fine glass.
You've established that the ground tastes of oranges and tomatoes, and reminds you of last summer and the fresh smell of fruit; the pleasure of knowing that you have given birth to something, although the doctor tells you that the way you want it will never be possible. The way he said it, it wasn't awful, it wasn't the end of everything, it wasn't the end of scarlet hair; it was just another woman who could never have a child. But the way you heard it, it was the end of your future. Who knew
she says "will you come home with me?" and i stop for a minute, there's this music all around me with the bass making my heart shake just a little less than she does and i have to make it stop. her eyes are staring down at me, dancing and electric like static butterflies, joining with mine and spreading love like pollen in summer; and i have to think to myself for a little while before i even say no.
i always wore shirts and jeans at school. other girls wore skirts and stupid little plimsoles, but that really wasn't my thing.
even i didn't suspect myself until i was halfway through high school. sometimes people would call my shirts dyke sle