This artistry in words has moved me.


Natalia Vodianova by Peter Lindbergh

Something is missing in the pit of my stomach. I feel the charcoal staircase rupturing, then filling in the cracks of the blank moon. Devastation. Delusion. I see my blue arms extended to the poles of molestation, a sudden resolution of black and white vintage movies. My kitchen sink evaporates somewhere. Devastation.

The monotony of this body screams till my black walls fall, a sunken truth in this concoction of empty bowls and folded curtain stretches. Elasticity. The hands are empty, crooked, decayed.

Oh yes, there is an eclipse appearing on my black braids, swinging swiftly like my lips did once to lick that butter kiss. Appearances and traits are cellophane clinging to my white forehead. The lights appear bound, seized. Stagnate.

I pray and pray to wither the molten frames and fragments. Catharsis. Purification.

The cheek tint once filled the blue sky, the blue water, with sheets of pure…

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#9 dream

we were singers. they knew. they sat us on two chairs, facing one another. we sang, at first in fear. then, with spirit. two came from behind and poured gallons of paint on our heads. First green, then grey. we sang more strongly, making a burbling sound and getting used to the taste. making deals, … Continue reading #9 dream