“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.”—
alone with all the things that i’ve done.living and thinking in minutes. my small days spill into light years. now i can pretend to live a life of starting over, forget what i used to be. there are dead stars whose light is trapped forever in time. how can i stand inside the light?
Songs were written for those eyes.
Mine never looked directly,
Instead were transfixed on corners
Black lash fades into black liner,
Brakes off like a Titanous sheath of ice, into the cold sea above your cheek bones.
Drawings were made for those hands.
Never was allowed to hold,
Instead found tiny marvels existing, receding waves lapping back from your cotton skin. Walking in a happy daze across the dunes somewhere in between your elbow and your wrist, were tide pools of unfathonable little senses .
Pictures taken of where you stood.
Never a smile with dedication,
Instead tours were organized,
As a way to keep your memory alive.
“Loved in the past, never in the present,” read the plaque.
Lips fed on words with preference.
Never a sentence to be stingy with,
Gaps in breath were you singing,
Unprecedented leaps in phrases were your most interpreted dances, by me. Smiling in the darkened theatre, as you practice the same routine over and over again to win over audiences more deserving of your efforts.
Little shooting stars, the captivating things in you I found. While everyone else foolishly spends their time on mapped out constellations.
I left most of my things on the floor A wild heart, I don’t remember. A different place I don’t want to go. When I’m alone I howl loudly. I can’t promise that I let the right one in. Am I invisible now? I became the dust as it settled. I saw the wolf in the storm. A native son A warm home Am I alone? Hello?
“I wish men weren’t so fucking weak. You make me look bad. I have to answer for all the bullshit you get up to. I have to endure women saying shit like, “Ok, there’s so much testosterone in the air,” when she sees some men fixing a car. I hate it when men go to strip bars. It lowers the rest of us that know if a man has to pay to see a woman naked, he is a loser and probably should get weeded out. I hate having to be put in the same category as with these pieces of shit that wouldn’t make it in the jungle. Little boys in men’s bodies. No wonder women hate them. I do too. Fuck it. I hate all of you. People are disgusting.”—Henry Rollins - Solipsist (via just-legalize-everything)
"What? What did you say? I thought I had seen your lips move."
It is standing there, erect like a might pillar. 12 feet tall, my rabid wolf.
How it got there I can’t particularly explain. Did he follow me home the day I fell off my bike? Or did he crawl in the window the day my father said he would never be able to trust me again. I don’t know.
The problem about doors, the one problem they don’t think to print onto a tag and give you with your receipt at home depot or wherever it is that you get your doors; is that you can’t control who walks through them once you put them there.
12 feet tall, my rabid wolf. I know him so well, yet I do not will him. I do not command who he bites with his rusted teeth, glazed over with uncaring years of decay.
Yet I am his handler, in the sense that the back lash for his impatience will always be mine.
It is standing up, looking straight ahead at me. It is a weight, his every breath, a reminder that his is as real as I am. For anything that can cause pain, as distant a memory as it may be, will always exist for the person on whom pain is inflicted.
I laugh an uneasy laugh. It is the ink to my squid. There is laughter of joy, but have you known laughter from pain. As loud as it may be, it maintains a quite undertone to its steady flow of giggles and chuckles.
Not all laughter is sprung from joy. This is a signal, that I am not strong enough to give an immediate answer, that I want to run as far from you as possible, where I can tend to my wounds in pieces. You are 10 feet tall, but there are things that are bigger than you.
12 feet tall, my rabid wolf. It has a coat onto which my old memories are tacked on. There is an old note that I received in middle school from that really sexual girl my pubescent self was happy to have found. On its hind leg is a picture of my first best friend. Back when I didn’t understand that best friends don’t come and go. They stay.
I hate myself for acknowledging it. They say that once you see the problem, you’re bound to end it. I must be blind you scream.
12 feet tall, my rabid world. He follows me when I’m walking, he knows when I’m awake. It stands over me when I’m sleeping, and makes sure I do not rest.
I laugh, I think it is ridiculous, I am ridiculed. By myself, by my feelings of endless anxiousness in this darkness. I can not let myself be in closed spaces, that is where it finds me. In the sun, I can hear it, see it in the wind, in the people that pass me by. If you’ve ever looked at a stranger who happens to look back, you may have seen a little piece of him.
"what? I’m writing about you. No, they won’t believe me, half of them don’t understand. And the remaining half have their own beasts to shut them up."
There is a cold sweat building around my neck. Under his firm grasp. It is not one with the intention to kill. Oh, I wish it had more of a purpose. As of now it is immobilizing, isolating.
12 feet tall, my rabid wolf. What a curse you have become. And I tell them, and I point to where you stand.
"I don’t think anything is there. That is not how life works. Life is a very linear thing. As clear as the forms you fill out to apply..What? Sure it is! You have a little emotional spat, your little existential crises during your college years. You get a job and you find the one. As long as you memorize rules it all works out. Don’t ask about application of said rules. I think that’s where you find your problems. You ask too many questions and you’re unsatisfied with too many answers."
What is the point in trying to explain to them, they may look back at me with judging eyes. And curse me with words. But this presence, it knows not time. It is not seasonal or has working hours I can manage my life around.
It stinks. It is the nauseating smell of my past. Each growl a word I never had the courage to say.
I distract him with little parts of me, leave them in between these lines. It may remain here, circling this piece like the hungry thing it is. But it will find me once more.
On those sullen, empty days.
People who lie, they tell you that the gloomiest days are those when the sky is gray, where your window is filling like a divider between you and the sea.
Or they say that gloomy days are ones where a bad thing happens.
Yes, that is where they like to believe it to exist. In a clearing.
I laugh. I’m laughing as I feel it take a hold of me once more. My rabid wolf. 12 feet of sorrow. 12 feet of anger. 12 feet of rage at no one being able to stop it, not even myself.
I watch from a safe distance, kneeling behind my “im sorry” tree, surrounded by my “I didn’t mean it” bushes.
It rips everyone apart, tears into them with a glee that makes me sick. Oh, my rabid wolf, it does not let them come close. I should have locked my door better. I should have not opened it. But if you open a door, you better be ready to take responsibility for those who walk through it.
"well, I think this is your part in what I’m writing."
!@!#$what should I say?09223
"our terms of existence."
095never look back is one. No one who has walked through that door is irreplaceable, that is two. It was always your fault. That is three.!@#$!%
"I thought there were a lot more?"
(*@#$ no, but under your signature, it says that you will always over think these three rules.*@)(#
12 feet tall, my rabid wolf. It is the one thing that I can always count on chewing down to my bones, having such a painful but familiar effect.
I know I should not let it bother me.
But after it has eaten its fill, of what ever hope I had managed to gather. It will lie down at my side.
($!&( i am going to sleep now. I know when to find you. ($@UR(
"Quick, kill it! Kill it so I can be free!"
I don’t remember what that was like. There are pictures, and stories to go with them.
But doesn’t it always feel like some other person’s life you enjoy retelling? Some other little bastard of a thing that was wild, stupid and putrid at its core?
I have awoken from my nightmare, to find that I remember who I was but do not know who I am. Tired, all I know is that I’ve been running throughout the night, I’ve been drowning in waves that have sunken me down to their lonely pits.
This is still a dream.
12 feet tall, that rabid wolf.
Where do we go from here? What shall I watch you devour?
I dream of a day When I dare to believe You’re the answer When the shame And the guilt are removed And the truth appears With the touch of your hand I lose who I am If I want to I tried to resist But succumb to the bliss Of your kiss