Bleeding Bells

Delta Spirit live

There's no place to lay my death
When I can't stand alone
The growth I need is fettered with fear
My heels dug in my place

Caged Bird.

When the last ounce of metal slid beneath her skin, the yellow tail
asked, "What sin have I commited?"

Glass.

An empty bottled man,
his tongue sampling spoonfuls
of her plastic.
Their heavy chests
exploring sheets of yesterday's lust.
A snake down her throat
he twists and squirms to invade
every secret,
learning details of the smoke and bones.
A single ventricle
leaks a trickle of passion.

The man is no longer empty.

April Wine

"It's been almost a year now and you are still unaware of who took your hands.

What have you been doing all this time?"

Sitting in a Starbucks Safeway Drinking Timmies.

His words and his voice are similar but something else emitting itself from his limbs. It's a stench that floats aimlessly like a corpse afloat the River Styx. I sit still, pateint and silent as he continues to ramble of his days passing. But secretly I gag. A garbage stink is filling my nostrils, my olfactories are begging for mercy. Not today. Not today.

His breath becomes slow, his sentence nearing it's final word.
"I suppose you should get back to work now," I quickly interject before any more disscussion can be furthered.
"Don't worry, I still have ten minutes."

A pressure in my abodomen tightens while a quiant smile stretches across his thin lips.
"I'm so glad you're here."

This is not the man I love.

Hormones

Swallowing another individual’s lust for the unknown
and finding the consequences to be more than a psychedelic trip
through a blanket of legs
is,
well, just that.

Junko Mizuno

Ravenous Cinderealla

A print from Mizuno's graphic novel version of Cinderella

Offcial Junko Mizuno: http://www.mizuno-junko.com/

The Needle & The Damage Done

Laura Marling covering Neil Young.

Dec 12, 1997

An excerpt from the graphic novel V for Vendetta, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by David Lloyd.

"My name is Adam Susan. I am the leader. Leader of the bst, ruler of the ruins. I am a man, like anyother man. I lead the country that I love out of the wilderness of the twentieth century. I believe in survival, in the destiny of the nordic race. I believe in fascism. Oh yes, I am a fascist. What of it? Fascism ... a word. A word whose meaning has been lost in the bleaths of the weak and the treacherous. The Romans invented fascism. A bundle of twigs was it's symbol. One twig could be broken. A bundle would prevail. Fascism... strength in unity.

I believe in strength. I believe in unity. And if that strength, that unity of purpose demands a uniformity of thought, word and deed then so be it. I will not hear talk of freedom. I will not hear talk of individual liberty. They are luxuries. I do not believe in luxuiries. The war put paid to luxury. The war put paid to freedom.
The only freedom left to my people is the freedom to starve, the freedom to die, the freedom to live in a world of chaos. Should I allow them that freedom?

I think not.
I think not.

Do I reserve for myself the freedom I deny others? I do not. I sit here within my cage and I am but a servant. I, who am master of all that I see. I see desolation. I see ashes. I have so very much. I have so very little.

I am not loved, I know that. Not in soul or body. I have never known the soft whisper of the endearment. Never known the peace that lies between the thighs of a woman. But I am respected, I am feared. And that will suffice. Because I love. I, who am not loved in return I have a love that is far deeper than the empty gaps and convulsions of british coupling.
Shall I speak of her?
Shall I speak of my bride?

She has no eyes to flirt or promise. But she sees all. Sees and understands with a wisdom that is God-like in its scale. I stand at the gates of her intellect and I am blinded by the light within. How stupid I must seem to hear. How chidlike and uncomprehending. Her soul is clean, untainted by the snares and ambiguities of emotin. She does not hate. She does not yearn. She is untouched by joy or sorrow, I worship her though I am not worthy. I cherish the purity of her disdain. She does not respect me nor does she fear me.

She does not love me.

They think she is hard and cold, those who do not know her. They think she is lifeless and without passion. They do not know her. She has not touched them. My love, I woukd stay with you forever, would spend my life within you. I could wait upon your every utterance and never ask the merest splinter of affection.

Fate...
Fate...

I love you."

The Morning After

The bare back is nothing but a
     platform for unyeilding words
     to scrape mental deteriorations into.
It resembles that one moment
     when the light cast it’s wake,
     harbouring hands that were
     meant to be yours.
It is the glass that crawls along
     your spouses’ spine,
     invigorating and weary where the
     nape folds in.
It is the steps lost within wine
     drenched lips,
     the only exit when a
     lamb tears with teeth.
How can it be expected that
     ribs crawl over time
     and torso’s move frequently?
And so, it is exactly what you think it is.

That one moment when you should have said no.

Oversize Paperbacks

Her apathy scared him. As it should. She became far too comfortable, far too diligent residing in the box she created for herself last summer. The assumption that returning to that slumber would no longer occur after meeting him was a thought silently spoken. Or perhaps it was never even fully acknowledged, but she knew it was there, residual fragments sifting through her so-called human particles. She had made the poor decision of assuming that after the August sun and Septemeber morning, the intense emotions created during those holidays would cease the stagnation.

Damn my luck, she thought.