dertoetenprinzessen37
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze. Stereotypical; ears are filled with small diamond studs and her fingers sparkle with rocky-rings, curled around a thick setlist.
Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze.
In A Station of the Metro is one of my favorite poems ever. Faces likened to petals on a wet black bough is one of the most beautifully harmonic images I've ever had the pleasure of reading and consuming like a starved cow in a field of clover. *Ezra Pound*
He tilted his head lower to face her lips, out of which was coming a low, garbled sound. He hated it when she mumbled; all they ever did was argue, but she never stood straight up when they did. She screamed all of a sudden and bolted from his side, leaving a chill wind aching up and down his bare arms.
He trudged forward on his elbows; reminiscent of a snail squelching along, through the trench. Bombs whistled through his ears, but he knew nothing had touched ground yet; PTSD already had its clutches around him, and each and every second of movement brought forth yet another barrage of warfare, ringing in his ears.
Society conforms; wraps around a cylindrical station, that never stops. Each human body pressed up against the cone licks the bittersweet sugar of its cream and is enraptured by its draw; conforming themselves to its ever-winding body.
I read this as clams...but everything I claim is hidden inside me, a clam cracking from the strain on its jaws. Everything I claim tends to be silent shouts inside the neurons just beneath this crop of dirty blonde hair.
There is murder in these streets. Watch, as the crimson betrayal drips down our brick walls. The white-hot flash of weaponry steels out a rhythm, being dragged against the flagstones, slowly approaching the doorstop. Watch, as murder echoes, a bell in the ears of the not-so-innocent.
Think ahead.
Charge ahead.
Like a lightning bolt
you must take flight
across the sky
a jagged high
of euphoric proportions.
Applied. Arts. Sciences. Glue. To a job. So many meanings, eh? I could have applied myself too far into English; I could have applied my skills to better venues; I could have applied to applications with apples and apply to the apps....applications. Oh, abbreviations. Abb. Abbrv. I'm out.
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writing since 2012 · 28 entries · 27 days shown up
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