FictionFriction
Buses, trains and lavender trails
each ticket held, collected
Till the fade of autumn
Rolling field or rust of sea
Rolling, lulling memory mist

Hair hues are stories
Ask,listen, change
Smell my currents
I will not let memory make me
But my texture is mutitudnal;
Graze of sandstone
Cool of flint
Electricity of tangerine hair

The resistance to loss of the unknown
But tremor of the familiar creaks

FictionFriction

Buses, trains and lavender trails

each ticket held, collected

Till the fade of autumn

Rolling field or rust of sea

Rolling, lulling memory mist

Hair hues are stories

Ask,listen, change

Smell my currents

I will not let memory make me

But my texture is mutitudnal;

Graze of sandstone

Cool of flint

Electricity of tangerine hair

The resistance to loss of the unknown

But tremor of the familiar creaks

First Draft
Hello white sheet
My stubborn obsession  
Fingers sinking deep,
Jadeliete and I;
Crystallised dreams-
Breaking on paper and space
Hidden
Heaving
Heart

Grey sugarless morning,
Light is anticipation
For the closed eyed drifters
sage swirling
ssswishhh

First Draft

Hello white sheet

My stubborn obsession  

Fingers sinking deep,

Jadeliete and I;

Crystallised dreams-

Breaking on paper and space

Hidden

Heaving

Heart

Grey sugarless morning,

Light is anticipation

For the closed eyed drifters

sage swirling

ssswishhh

We waste days like mad blackbirds
and pray for alcoholic nights.
Our silk-sick human smiles wrap around
us like somebody else’s confetti.
— Charles Bukowski (via myarmisnotalilactree)
Reblogged from Journal of a Nobody
what i want is to be
aware of the spaces between stars, to breathe
continuously the sources of sky,
a veined sail moving,
my love never setting
foot to the dark
anvil of earth
— Pat Lowther, from “Random Interview,” in Time Capsule (with thanks to a-pair-of-ragged-claws)
Reblogged from Journal of a Nobody
'So you want to be a writer?' by Charles Bukowski
Here is a drink for your birthday 

'So you want to be a writer?' by Charles Bukowski

Here is a drink for your birthday 

eigengrau
[ahy-gen-grou]

(noun) An untranslatable, German word also known as eigenlicht, describing the color the eye sees in the dark, in absence of light; loosely translated to intrinsic gray: dark light or brain gray. Eigengrau is perceived as lighter than a black object under normal lighting conditions because contrast visually surpasses brightness to the human eye.  For example, the night sky is darker than eigengrau because the stars intensify its blackness, thus providing a high level of contrast. 

  • literallyeigen (one’s own) + grau (gray) = own’s gray
(via wordsnquotes)
Reblogged from WORDS N QUOTES
Every word has consequences. Every silence, too.
— Jean-Paul Sartre, from The Sellected Essays (via worshipgifs)
Reblogged from THOTH
When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.
— Albert Camus, from Notebooks 1951-1959 (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reblogged from Soaked In Soul

Borough of Burroughs

Limon-cello and rose’
for a parched temperament.
But bitter is the lust (feverish),
With fire in the underground
The walkers of art above
Are ontic lovers:
Absurd and indivisible,
Nausea flows

Neverness

I am bare and luminous,

The Tycho abyss on the moon. 

A thorougher of near consciousness,

a searcher of noctilucent trails.

The everness of Borges 

in the self annihilation of Kerouac.

But in the conundrum of skin cells,

I am that existential variant 

that questions the direction of time and

carves the art of disdain

into cloudburst sunsets;

a near bursting expanse 

of the lived and the to be lived