The twin inside need less
I am his calm

Dedicated to Georgia O'Keefe


Pj, another?

Cassandra wrote as mystery
Sailed foreign catastrophies
Her son a hurricane
And Britains Paings of same

Gergorivich breakfast I am told
Ivanovishna tell of your garden once
Your father? When

In your taken griefs
Blacks of neigh
Brassed in pray
Leaf in palm
Calming mistress fawns

Your demise
Demagogue as plied
Shouldn't showered Mona moon follow?

Intimate of rome

Tucked high in tittles bend
A star his mother left to fend
Fathers fed against his spires

Turgenev and Dante

You loved me.
I've hurt you.
I'm sorry.

It's all on me.
No one else is wrong.
Let them blame.

Is this enough?

I've cried rivers,
Become a desert.
There's no more life left.

Is this enough?

My friends are gone.
I took them for granted.
I stand alone and empty.

Is this enough?

I slap myself,
When a smile creeps.
I don't deserve it.

Is this enough?

Your needs come first.
Trample on me.
I am your slave.

Is this enough?

I've lost it all-
my tears,
my friends,
my happiness,
my respect,
my humility.

Is this enough?

Will you forgive me?

If I stop dreaming
It fully wakes the beast
Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld

a collapsed time, its recurring pulse
spews me in and out of my mold
everything exists all at once
everyday,
probable and frozen states,
this configuration of atoms.
terror owned my muscles
cruelty assaulted my mind
I was breathing only in dreams
fused and confused,
receptacle for an anarchic pain.
I was living the secret life of moths
encapsulated in strangled words

I am writing:
this is the shape of a heart
no denial.
a tyranny of silence
is an impossible exile.
oh, I have to remember
the fortitude of silence
when I'm shouting,
when the tyrant is I

Reading magazines and books
listening to music and singing
painting to my heart's content
Avoiding thinking about
what I hear on the news
that is how we all should
pass their days
Indulge in pursuits
which make you happy
and strengthen you
to face the ugly reality

Consonants are the bones
and vowels the breath where wings undress.  
Rooms walking faces on
traced footsteps are the rest CONSCIOIUSNESS asks of me.  

Time is the stream soaking light
into everything.  
Imagination is my brokerage with mood
and relief from talking

and much safter than dreams.

You ache to speak, to set things right,
To call out wrongs done in plain sight.
But silence, heavy as it seems,
Can guard your soul and guard your dreams.

He saw the lies, the twisted truth,
The wounds they hid, the stolen youth.
So hold your peace, let vengeance wait—
God writes the end, not fear or hate.