The industrial grey lingers
beneath my tips, hovering
above circuitry and plastic.
My fingers waltz through the
keys, a monotone melody
meanders 'mongst my veins.
I type. I type. I type.
My gaze flicks to the pen,
resting squat on the desk.
It scratches on paper. Ink
is strewn.
A pitter-patter of ink,
an unfathomable pattern.
A psychiatrist's method.
Butterfly, you say.
Two faces kissing, you say.
Ink, I say.
Returning to my industrial
grey, I find comfort in the
unfeeling technology.
Cold. Hard. Constant.
For those fleeting moments, you were mine
and I was yours.
Love is equal, discriminates not
as your rogue strand of hair
brushes my cheek.
Is this what I want?
what you want?
Cherry blossom falls as your eyelashes
graze my forehead, the snow upon our backs.
Love does not discriminate?
fie!
There is a lover, and the loved.
How is that equal?
Your cola scented sighs embrace me,
our tongues engulfed in furious battle.
We slump against the wall...
Caress, kiss, touch.
Romantic, no?
...
no.
Am I the lover or the loved?
The consistant ticking of
Death's clock rings through
My ears, Grandfather Time's
Bell tolling once a lifetime.
The persistent drone of the
Clock is drowned out by
You. You, the one who makes
Me forget how temporary this is.
You create a fugue around me,
The electric fog hisses through
My nerves. I forget self, carry
My cross, and you allow me to follow
You like some psychic vampire.
I feed, feed from your lifeblood,
You cannot see it now, but
My bitemarks go deep.
I have read Tolstoy
I have pored over Neitzsche
I have studied T. S. Elliot.
I have read this and more, my friend,
Believe me.
Many a dusty volume of deep, tranquil thought
And yet none of this rings true.
Like an overused cliche, a 'ripple in water'
We are but the shadow in a house of mirrors,
A dead reflection of that which was never alive.
Like a vulture scouring a desert,
Filled with the sands of time, dropping, decaying,
Lost forever.
The vulture hunts and hunts, but finds no meat, only
Bones that were the shell of mind, the shattered mind,
The decaying remains of that which wasn't.
I feel like I am but fiction, a narrati
Current Residence: Near York, UK Favourite genre of music: Anything, really. Favourite style of art: I hold a great deal of respect for artistic photographers. Operating System: XP MP3 player of choice: A Sony Walkman stick-thing.
Ok everybody I want you all to know that Coonah is a big ol' candy cane and looks like Wayne from Wayne's World!!
Ok peace out Coonah or I'll set a Japanese transvestite on you!!! And you'd better DeviantWatch me back or I'll cry and know that you're an ungrateful bitch whosaidtheyweregoingtogetmeachristmaspre senteventhoughItoldyounottoanyway!!!