I was called strange and beautiful.
I am the happiest person in all the worlds of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

It is quite inconsequential that he owed me some flattery.

Hair gone grey,
eyes in a stye,
nose that flows,
a voice strays dry.

Breasts now bold,
nipples stand,
flesh that sags,
then there’s the hand.

Palms all rough,
nail bitten through,
hair grows hard,
lines are few.

Stomach folds,
marks that stay,
legs apart,
a hole leads the way.

Legs bear all,
toes that fold,
cracked heels,
A body, I mould.

la lala lala la lala

I want to be a foot masseuse. I want to clean people's feet, work on them, and treat them very very well.
No Sir, I do nothing else. Only your feet.

la la lala

I also want to answer calls and give people directions to places I've never been to.

Jump, jump, oh jump.
Jump oh Elephant Man.
Jump up, Jump down,
Maybe, over the fan.

Jump now, while no one watches
Jump into my mind
Take the words and throw them out
Take all that you can find.

Take the words that make the thought,
Turn them round and round.
Take them down and walk them out
Until they can't be found.

Oh no, oh Elephant Man
I can call you not
For that you were I cannot see
No more can I be taught

A tie is a tie no more,
A rose I cannot smell.
The fragrance leaves the flower not,
Its the word I cannot tell.

Stolen of the fearsome eye

I am
a stolen song,
an unfinished orgasm,
a half-thought,
a broken rib,
an impossible wish,
a comma misplaced,
an overgrown nail.

I am also bored.
The Motorcycle Diaries have bored me. I fell like a self-thrown outcast.

A very interesting Sunday afternoon it was, all in the land behind closed eyes.
I felt different types of orgasms, made a film on brains that are detached from the body and the joys of their reunion, and read a book on genetic engineering.
With absolute clarity, I lived the life that was not to be.

I, here, still know nothing about orgasms, detached brains or genetic engineering.

Hunger. hunger. hunger. What an awfully easy excuse for a bad sense of grammer and an empty mind.

And, I shall sleep with Prufrock. I am pleased. :)
We shall disturb the universe together.

If you could sleep with any fictional character, who would it be?

One of the first poems I read, this is for the many hands man.

The Thought Fox by Ted Hughes

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.
Sylvia Plath.

I feel silly and jealous. He once told me he'd never felt jealousy, because he always got what he wanted. I've never associated jealousy with wanting something. I've just wanted another not to have it.
I feel like a horribly ugly dog in the manger.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table.

Frida happened over the weekend.
I, too, want to sleep with Trotsky.

The pleasures of my body that he stole with his fingers, will now be tasted by another.

I don't remember my past. I live in my head these days.

I quote him, who I like a lot.

Everybody wants to talk. There are no listeners anymore. I am unwillingly, yet in a completely self- thrown manner climbing on to the side of the talker. It bothers me to see myself consciously throw away my weapon of silence.

I'm in love with you, and soon I will know it.
I'm in love with you, and you choose to ignore it.

'Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect — simply a confession of failures.'

The Wilde man always pleases me :)

I just figured out how to get to a site without the address being saved in that little horrible mind-give away box on the top of the screen. I feel ridiculously smart: )