|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:43 pm
:Le premiere collective de Kjralon:
This, dahlings, is probably the most basic collective ever. Pretty self-explanatory; I just listed whatever's on each page. Do me a favor, and critique/comment on whatever you feel like critiquing/commenting on. <3
Page One.
:relationship problems.
:sorry.
:living dead.
:taut-opposites.
:past fireplaces.
:amour nouveau.
:The Dying Orchestra. (8.5" x 11" glossy.)
:arachnid?
:endings.
:please tell me about us.
:anti-sound.
:love-stab, rather than bite.
:neanderthals.
surprised ffice-minded.
Page Two.
:passed(t) vacations.
:required element.
:last kiss.
:alarm-clock-human.
:drag this prison.
:secretarial-uncupid.
:unhealing.
:universally.
:calamity.
:daisy.
:a poem about nothing.
:smoke.
:beginnings.
 "Literature is always a work in progress."
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:44 pm
relationship problems.
By the time the chamber
clicks,
and the round sped,
like a doorknob turning,
I felt insides die
as you infiltrated the room
(though I never knew this infant of metallic endings,)
telling me, "I never loved you,"
as I laid my existence at your feet, with grace.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:45 pm
sorry.
Apologies fall from
this old stereo,
gather 'round undeaf ears;
glittering eyes that resolved
never to melt over this
do so.
Waltzes through listening
love the mind more than
any speech ever could;
s'il vous plait,
finalize me through
embrace.
Melancholy slows with endings,
unlike arms
would if these soliloquies
could liberate themselves
from ember'd fireplaces.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:46 pm
living dead.
Tear through the esophagus;
carcasses revel in the beauty of blood.
The rip of fleshy fingernails
flings soundwaves through eardrums
(redrum) and sleek screams
echo in lonely rooms.
Typical butterfly blades flit(flutter)
in soft passages,
slashing-uncaring-simply tells
the stories that never matter
to their murderers.
And there's so much more;
the epic shotgun sounds
resound in streets long empty of life
that actually cared about living.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:47 pm
taut-opposites.
In those
sometimes I look into your
eyes, I see our past
considerations
and now I realize
that (which) without,
I...
I never would have
loved
(learned to hate)
someone.
Tips for Reading. Read all. Read odd lines. Read even lines.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 8:49 pm
past fireplaces.
Years later,
we sit across the breakfast table
with our everyday wall
of newsprint between us.
Our thoughts are our own;
sharing them is something
we haven't done in years.
But occasionally I still wonder
if the embers
of our fireplace
will ever again ignire your eyes.
Old movie reels rotate,
backwards,
in my thought processes.
"And," he stated,
"With this ring, I thee wed."
And now, this golden memory
is perched upon my finger.
The fireplace ignited your eyes
as we talked there on the couch.
You told me of your dreams
and I told you of mine;
surprisingly enough,
we were in both.
Your kiss explored my face,
and behind closed eyes
I melted into your warmth
and the safety of your arms.
The past; this is its definition.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:38 pm
amour nouveau.
You and I,
the moon reflecting
endless eyes (en
veloping the soliloquies,
soft
silence),
caused the uncrash
of fate.
(More of a falling,
not out but in.)
Your arms were
unaround me;
the light was mine, you said,
and splintered glass surrounded me,
(keeping me out, not in).
But it's the
kind of reality that
makes joy
resonate
with the liberation
of
a
consummate captivity.
Feel free to thieve my heart.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:39 pm
The Dying Orchestra. (8.5" x 11" glossy.)
The broken melodies
smash within her mind.
The shards of reflection
reveal all her lies;
fancifications
become real;
this is all for herself.
She lives this nightmare
for no one else.
Her eyes will not see
what the mirror claims true.
She stands without tears,
all this in lieu
of the orchestra screeching
her graces notes (her life)
into the remnants of
an empty mind.
Torn clothes form
the landscape of the floor;
the white furrows of ribs
leer at her in the last reflection.
Rage builds
inside its tiny host,
which becomes a whirlwind
of bones (far sharp)
and flesh (too dull)
and tangled hair, always, always in the way,
and bulging eyes, too big for their sockets.
The blood will seep slowly
as facial rivers build,
and the scream of the forever frustrated
reverberates throughout the house.
Promising, thin personalities
with perfect features
drip from the pages of
her angry, shredded magazines,
and this world of false advertising
may be crushed with a furor
as she simply stands and stares.
Maybe it's Maybelline.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:40 pm
arachnid?
Deep legs tickle the floor boards,
scratching against invisible confinements.
New concepts speed
across multiple screens (facets
of vision, carried in dark exoskeletons).
Click-click,
slice and dice;
follow dinner, this moving
nutrition
(best
consumed
vitally, kicking in the esophagus).
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:42 pm
endings.
Suddenly, she has you.
And personal minds flash back to the time before;
these memories fade
and leave the door open.
I've told them hundreds of countless times
to lock it on the way out.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:43 pm
please tell me about us.
Incapability seizes the mind;
tongue comatized, lips magnetized.
The humanizing traits still seep
from caustic pores, flammable.
And you;
you who had become (oralwaysbeen)
a still frame in my thoughts,
the last flame of the last sunset
behind the perfect visionaries
which had once been my jailors.
(Maybe they still are.)
But then you cajoled me into dismantling my own walls;
block by block, stone by stone,
I murdered my own security blanket
and the police removed it from the scene,
accusing it of my crimes.
"Expiration date:
August
thirteenth,
2005,"
read the label; the ignition to Panic.
Hypothetical night envelops the thought-processes,
evolving to no more than
wailing lights (patrioticblood)
and the epileptic seizures that never exist (They'reallinyourhead).
Twitching pulsation spins into
the rhythm of a heart on overload,
the sort that die in explosions of light,
and with much ado.
And then the words bloom,
halting soliloquies, inherently simple
and possibly painful
to the humanized ear.
Nonsensical whimsy
is a true shot to the heart,
but creates somewhat accurate speech.
(This despite the fact that the English language is not prone to emotion.)
And although our future is still
simply blank, paper lines,
we have more than enough time
(if not too much)
to press a pen to it,
and find out who we truly are.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:44 pm
anti-sound.
Chuckles bust
beneath blueberry skies,
glass bubbles swelling to the breaking point
as she swings through his unwords,
(inner-kid, anti-goat)
coming through the farmyard,
not necessarily unwanted.
Clothes aren't for eating.
But words can be.
At least, he signifies this
through the dancing of hands,
thumb down, palm out
in the manner of unhearing.
Love is more than sound.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:45 pm
love-stab, rather than bite.
Glistening metallics,
(sharp-edged laughter, ring
ing in your hand)
iron wit and glimmering
romanticism.
After deceasing myself (the only one
who truly loved you,
just like all the others),
you seethe and simmer
to seek another victim.
Any
body
will do.
The stab wound; red
represents faux amour
(at least to you).
The body that
you next select;
you'll speak of her eyes,
but look at her neck.
It's the end of emotion
that truly gets you going,
not the hand that you so slowly
entwine your fingers in.
Kiss a corpse, for love is dead.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:46 pm
neanderthals.
It was over the edge;
so much more than the primal,
instinctive
emotions of humanity.
Perfection, rather.
The worth of a humanized form of living
increased with the arrival of you.
The proverbial butterflies had been shot
(with a .45; several thousand years later, by the way),
but the care simply
deeprooted itself.
It's always been more.
Reciprocation repairs life; at least that's what you claimed,
as you told me that somehow,
back when we were simply Neanderthals,
a typical, stone-sized chunk of your heart
discovered fire.
And apparently I am flint.
Suddenly, you found you'd known the truth;
always known that her definition was love.
Head-over-heels, or vice-versa,
you wanted her for more than
traditional, human-male urges.
Luckily, you'd informed me of the trap I'd set for myself;
steel ideals glinted sharply, finally unearthed to light.
Lying to myself has always been
one of my fairer talents.
But still the care delves deeper,
roots pressing down to the core,
to the point where death accidentally occurs.
I think I loved you;
maybe a stone-sized chunk of my own heart always will, too.
That early-born, deeprooted care
grew me into a red oak of a human being.
Except, well, she'd bought your heart at the auction long ago
with an accidental bid by Fate.
And you let me know.
But then...
Reciprocation repairs life; at least that's what you claimed,
as you told me that somehow,
back when we were simply Neanderthals,
a typical, stone-sized chunk of your heart
discovered fire.
And apparently I am flint.
And once more, you're off to murder dinner,
as I stay and consider creating caves,
breathing thoughts
easily,
painting as usual.
And I'm thinking that
I've finally evolved enough to see
that your proverbial kills aren't always for me.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2005 9:47 pm
office-minded.
"These cornfield ********;
they haven't a clue what's been
turning the world.
Goddamnit, you'd wish that people
would lift their eyelids,
(fingers, if possible)and
see that tHe timEs
is all there is."
But concrete blocks
are what build his mind;
cubicle eyes see onlywhirring lights
as desktops dance in his dreams.
HTML is everything ,
and closedmindedness
is what you
make
of
it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
