A field report from the frontiers of art.
New tune, MLK assisted, a love letter to the movement afoot in Vancouver.
tao of wu vol.2. read this
(Source: blvck-cat, via considerthishippie)
head tattoos, no longer out of the question
Breakups to makeups, fake ups and what the hell are you (or I) thinking? Never know that I suppose. I guess I suppose a lot of things. The weight of expectations weigh heavy as this elephant, just sitting here, staring obviously awkwardly. But, sorry its not you. Really it’s me. It’s about me and my desires for the unattainable. We’re talking about levels, we’re talking about the gut I’ve grown as we’ve cuddled away the last few seasons. And you were everything I’ve ever wanted, until what I wanted changed. And now I realize, all that I wanted was to want what you wanted. To be unshakeable in that quest for the light at the end of the tunnel. But your contentious apathy and desire to just chill, has me frozen, and that has led us here instead. Another heart to the grinder, a reminder, that the braille on your heart was already written. Silly me, I remember when those were goosebumps.
Ruminations on a love supreme
Crawl into to bed, an ember from another lit cigarette, burning a matrix sized hole in the back of my neck. I’m suspect to think, in these thinly veiled hours, that I’m not where I want to be, not the owner of that masterpiece. The one that haunts me, since I was a seed, the seed that I bleed on, earth to grow a tree on. Fixated on beyond, it’s been so long, a habit, celibate, devotee, the pressure is a bond. Iron lung whistle on through the darkness so I can find, the lever in my mind, to find peace. What’s peace but the absence of thought, what’s truth from the world of have nots, what have I wrought. The life lines on my hands are stained with ink, running from a reverse IV, direct from a rekindled heart.
The weight of the infinite
My city is a woman.
Continental cosmopolitan intelligent and refined.
But tonight she peers into my soul through bit lips, and soft eyes,
she wants me to come out and play.
Her scenic streets throb with potential,
Her breath tastes of gin martinis, bass music and youth.
Lust lives here, and thrives.
We were lovers last summer and now that she’s shirked her frosty shell,
she wants me back.
But tied to the mast, I cannot answer the siren’s song.
I won’t, last year I barely survived,
another year would surely kill me.
pure talent from Swit, woof.