+ a turning +

The moon stood still.
So still.
Her eyes gazing toward the bed frame.
Blackened bars transforming
Their wooden legs
Into jail cells.

She could see through them.
Inside of them.
Men walking over her soul
And her mind…
And her heart…

The small of her back
Ached.
She saw his hand grace over,
Resting on her porcelain thigh.

And at the very last moment,
He took his other palm,
And placed it there, too.

Give her not your love stories.
Your broken insides
Waiting to be filled.
Give her not your tales of family woe;
How your blessed ones will choose
By knife
By pistol
By rope
By fire.

Just give her the truth.
And a chance.

+ horror is beautiful +

i never understood others who couldn't handle the sight of blood or death or pain.
like watching a needle pierce the severed skin of an accident victim -- i never seemed to have a problem with it.
i wondered if they had issues looking at the mutating pieces of their souls.
almost like their own eyes were medusa's, and the slightest look inside would turn them to stone.

well...
i've turned to stone.
many times.
what they forgot to tell you,
is that stone can melt.
and metal gold burns its way to the surface.

+ + + + +

i can't take credit for finding out about artist damien hirst myself.
i suppose he entered my life in the manner most things do --
osmosis. naturally.

here's a taste of the horror he can provide so delicately.

"adam and eve under the table"


"sacred xvii"


"beautiful inside my head forever"


"the broken dream"

+ new beginnings +

but, sometimes even she will still haunt me.

+ it really makes me sick... +

...that i love them as much as i do.






Let me come over/
I can waste your time/
I'm bored/
Invite me to the war/

+ it's better if you shut those eyes +

minimal breaks
and
minimal tones
make
everything
worth it
.