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15 December 2008 @ 03:50 am
I had felt that sort of surge of love before; but this was the first time its recipient was actually there; in tangibility, in person. And so I showered him with kisses and caresses, as only the mood knows how to inspire. It was aesthetically messy. A strange entanglement of flesh and hair. Aurally disorganised. Irregular breathing and hoarse half-annunciated fragments of words. What did it all mean? I should have asked myself sooner. What does any of this mean; what will it mean tomorrow; what will it mean in a year, in ten years? Because things seem softer at night, with the curtains half-drawn and the moon spilling slightly in; things seem prettier. Maybe I seemed prettier. And how could I pretend to understand, in that moment? How could I stop to analyse? I didn't bother. It was an over-powering sort of surge of love, the kind that makes one twitch with despair and longing when one is alone -- but not this time. But it did not make sense.
26 April 2008 @ 08:26 pm
and we like the same songs; we are in-between lovers' worlds, where limbo flays the heart and cynics bloom.
18 November 2007 @ 01:10 am
some people think they're always right;
others are quiet and uptight.
others who seem so very nice
inside they might feel sad and wrong (oh oh)
twenty-nine different attributes
only seven that you like;
twenty ways to see the world?
or twenty ways to start a fight.

a man don't notice what they got
when they think they're down on luck;
oh a thousand ways to please your man,
every one requires a plan.
oh gods and all religions too;
it doesn't matter which you choose (oh no)
one step away, you turn your back.
others have tried and i refuse.
oh, don't don't don't get up!

-- You Only Live Once; The Strokes

They told me if I write this song for them
That they would cut my hair for free;
but that's not me, no liberties.
-- Wasted Little DJs; The View
12 November 2007 @ 10:32 pm
Nine times out of ten our hearts just get dissolved.
Well I want a better place or just a better way to fall.

But one time out of ten, everything is perfect for us all.
Well I want a better place or at least a better way to fall.

-- Bukowksi; Modest Mouse
12 October 2007 @ 06:29 pm
Got burnt, third-degrees
Never learned my lesson but forgive me please
Nothing lasts forever and nothing is free
Please remember to let me down gently
The Futureheads; "Burnt"

Finding a replacement with a heart sedated
I'll forget you
Architecture in Helsinki; "The Owls Go"

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All you can do
Is do what you must
You do what you must do
And you do it well
Bob Dylan; "Buckets of Rain"

And we are vagabonds
We travel without seatbelts on
We live this close to death
The Decemberists; "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect"

I'm a realist
I'm a romantic
I'm an indecisive (I'm an indecisive!) piece of shit
The Cribs; "I'm A Realist"
05 October 2007 @ 11:01 pm
A pie's boomerang says:

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
praying orchid mantis

A pie's boomerang says:
on a stool

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
with a fool

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
drinking, makes him look cool

A pie's boomerang says:
smocking makes him look bad

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
but he does it anyway, thinks it saves his soul and gives him something to brood about

A pie's boomerang says:
Religion wasn't good for his mentality

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
but he prayed to god anyway, thinking he could pass on the blame and throw away his days

A pie's boomerang says:
into the gutter where rats and crocodiles breed.

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
But he wound up there one day anyways. Dead.

A pie's boomerang says:
scratched up, muddy and bloody is his corpse

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
and his soul is battered beyond recognition; ideals? principles? all the gods he revered are dead, disbelief clogs his pores

Pooja "Meanie-head" Bharat says:
(we are actually writing like poetry)

A pie's boomerang says:
Murder? Suicide? Accident? No one knows. All the answers lie in the sores.
12 August 2007 @ 02:47 am

the crunch

too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or


strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place

unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
thought of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say

--Charles Bukowski

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