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its so annoying

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thank god !!

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anyone have any good movie websites? xx

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By God I saw them burn in front of me

Their shrieks reached the ones above

Their faces looked right at me and screamed for help

By God I saw their souls leave in front of me

I swear I could not do anything

Their chest hit the floor as their arms failed

By God I saw the Kingdom collapse

The roof fell down and trapped angels inside

The gardens were burned and rivers died

By God I saw them beg for me

The earth between us was ablaze

Their beckons could not bring me over

By God I saw them melting

Their palms caught onto the sand

And their hair resembled a wheat field fire

By God I could swear those were feathered wings

They walked in, wreaked havoc and left

By God I thought their head was on fire

I could not say if they were Followers

I could not tell since everything around them burned

The Lord slapped this land and He said:

"With each strike, I'll take a thousand"

The Lord takes fistfuls of martyrs

And has since kept His mouth silent

And since the world kept silence

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Oh jeebz

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Birds stopped singing a long time ago

They now screech in terror

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Method Acting, or Classical, or Still Life of a Kiss as a Gun

The only thing standing

between a girl and a gun

is a cowboy, says Mr. Hollywood,

feigning his father’s deeper drawl,

cigarette smoke from

a dainty pair of fingers,

those of

the uncalloused warrior.

Toothpick between the teeth,

sucking grime lollipops,

lamb still caught and pleading in a shark smile

he blows a kiss,

and asks her how

she is doing, gut

jutting out from the center

and spreading like strawberries

between his legs.

She is, she imagines,

at this moment

a raisin in the sun,

juicy only

Here, in the space between,

where a liminal kiss

pops outside of her,

cracking

from his flaming lips.

It is crude and warm,

his,

an earthly violence,

microwave popcorn snapping

into shape –

or perhaps the light from

a wider wave

sticking its warm tongue

in the soft cracked lips

of a cave.

Gazing at a smudgy mirror, wet with

hot moisture, red magma

circling the tongue,

she regards lipstick in hand

that crude drawing of an angel;

Evangelos,

the messenger

crumpled up in

time toilet paper,

wrinkled and

above the grid.

Whose shadow, she thinks for the first time –

is that there,

hot charcoal dust rubbed

into assumed form

with quick broad gestures

on volcanic rock?

What impression, known

by art or cunning,

by love or a veiled violence,

led her like a hermit

to such long years of darkness?

To the ice?

Within her, in deep

and narrow caves,

a tremor from a molten core,

a beating heart

giving way to light,

a rotating star

ripping a slit

in space and time;

that, she hears,

is how the light gets in.

Cracks on your eggs in the morning,

Crumpled napkin,

kleenex covered

in tears and snot,

tectonic plates rubbing

against each other in balmy weather;

that dance, that kiss, that little death

between the letters

of the alphabet.

Erosion.

She opens her mouth

to speak

and it is teleharmonic, then,

spoken,

her grievance –

her love;

outside and inside of her,

warm waves suspended between

tides of an angry love, heat lightning

in the ground and in the sky;

divine and cutting as a bird of prey,

the gales of winds

flutter through dark skies

and the clouds, pregnant

with their moonshine,

cry the song pouring in

like first summer rain.

Do you hear it?

Cut to a crack

in an old mug

you can’t throw out.

In all that fire, in all that ice,

from lush verdant landscape

a la abstract interior,

she laughs at the cowboy

with the soft hands,

dancing months later

hips sweaty

in a pyrotechnic haze,

that lush jungle between

pulsing with music

on the Fourth of July,

thinking of past;

and, trembling, afraid –

with the amplitude of fear

and hope

known only by mothers

and fathers,

calloused fingers on

leather arms

gripping tiny jackets

behind yellow lines,

fearing the blue rail,

the elemental humming

from the ground,

thinking too

always

of future.

A moment of distraction,

of arrival,

neural lightning,

a gun,

or Nearly Headless Nick –

she remembers an old ghost,

which is a word,

and which speaks:

Verde que te quiero verde.

It is in that shaky ankle on the grass

or the empty bottle in the bush,

in that dance with booming reggae

or chance

or a coiled snake hiding

among the greenery –

in a bite which would mean

to some,

to her,

the same blood loss that

drained the hollow space

under the membrane

in the first place,

in the crescent moons

under her eyes,

many waxes

and wanes ago;

Dogs barking, muffled in the distance,

on Saturday night;

a block away, a marquee reads

“Puberty Two,”

thrilling a group of zealous boys

huddled outside of the IMAX.

They fetch bolt cutters.

They break in through thin membrane

of multiplex parking lots.

In bloom and

applying lipstick,

her mouth full, slightly open;

methodically –

she kisses a convex mirror

in that silent prayer of attention

which is love.

Its dimensions, for the moment,

are of no concern, though

in her modernity,

she has been known to subscribe

to fashion magazines of

a haughty culture.

Lipstick on the glass;

a corridor with windows on

both ends,

the lips red

and the undereyes blue and –

my God, she thinks,

just think of it –

all that green in between!

Somewhere in

INTERIOR - HOUSE, NIGHT,

like the mythological beauty

or beast of a modern ghost story,

she casts a spell and

passes through,

and you can find it there,

here,

everywhere;

on both ends of glass;

in Content and Form,

Sun and Moon,

or red blue green,

in stories of wild people long ago,

of witches

and wizards

and Muses of the forest,

fairies of the aquamarine;

water,

water most of all.

This is it, another ghost thinks

in the funhouse

hall of mirrors,

then emblazoned,

and now blooming from the ground

toward the skies –

water,

in the glass and all around him.

And so she says the same,

swimming in broad strokes

to a film score made of

rhythms of blood rush,

that crude smooth jazz of becoming.

Shaky ankles when you’re dancing on glass.

Sana sana

colita de rana.

The lights are off now,

and a candle is lit,

and – bathed in moonlight

from the open window,

dancing to a song

which pulses from rotating disco balls

deep in disco space,

and in her starry veins,

fearing the ocean as a child

but learning to swim,

de buena o de mala,

swallowing water

and coughing

and spitting

and loving the salty brine,

so that we swallow the sea

before it takes us for good measure.

A wild iris, through concrete, and dirt;

and beneath it,

always,

the sea.

A song of stars becoming;

you only need to be still to hear

and the body sings it,

the body sings.

(sorry this is gigantic pls don't kick me out!!! much love heehee)

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“Whore”

Lust is what they feed on,

They love and hate me,

They all want me,

Those disgusting pigs,

They’re filthy,

With a loving wife back home,

Who hate me but with good reason,

I’m disrespected everywhere,

Except in the hotel,

“But it doesn’t matter she’ll probably overdose anyway”