01 November 2009

{ 02.05 } .. . anemoi

ask not for whom the wind blows

The ghosts that whisper behind my eyes are echoes from some collective dream. Their constant urgings for contrary pursuits buffet my will to a stand still. I saw a Tenniel girl with a disembodied bunny. I saw a corseted puppet dangling from a cardboard cross. In the quiet haven of sentimentality that has replaced the tempest of clashing emotions, I sought refuge by refusing to age with trashy determination. Though I don’t believe in an inevitable fate, I give in to easy virtues, as if I were controlled by some invisible hand. Even though I stop myself from pursuing just any soft, fuzzy prey, I end up having the taste of game on my laboured breath.

Will you be my Liddell darling tonight?


spiral scratch
tempted .. . { squeeze, east side story }
fight the power .. . { public enemy, fear of a black planet }
hands of god .. . { mahalia jackson, for collectors only }



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