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the dandy in your ghetto

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i'm your last bullet, not your fucking friend [20 Feb 2004|01:06am]
[ mood | contemplative ]

stomping
with sounds
those dulcet tones
upon my vocal chords
schreech-
you're head over heels
you say?
there's a hole
in my head
and a gap
in my teeth
scars for every
star i see
floating there
in front of me
scars for all
that i cannot reach
and still
you say you're head
over heels
arse high in the air
slap it baby
those dulcet tones
gashing my skin
so this it?
you're head over heels
and i'm stuck in
this rut
the grave
you dig
with your vocal chords
scraping
i'm losing my fingernails
all over you
this is love
you say?

9 sick of sex| get real pleasure

[13 Feb 2004|07:47pm]
i don't like it here anymore

walls wont move no matter how much i scream at them. it's still the same.

i am a subtraction

i want to be an equation (preferably a quadratic, kids without fathers like symmetry ya know)

why is there no cure for humiliation? or want

i want not to want so i can't have it

desire is my disease
8 sick of sex| get real pleasure

[09 Feb 2004|12:27am]
inside your ears and inbetween your fingers, i am looking for a meaning. can hear me screaming this whisper? i paint my message all over you, but we can never see ourselves the way we really are. silence prevails by consuming everything.
1 sick of sex| get real pleasure

[04 Feb 2004|11:06pm]
peter andre is my god
3 sick of sex| get real pleasure

lipsticktraceshidethosefacesbecomethehunterandnottheprey [14 Jan 2004|06:24pm]
[ mood | i can't write. goddammit. ]

letters fade
tears will dry
girls kisses
will come again
babies grow
and sorrow goes
roses will bloom again
open mouths
spill truths
like long thin silver threads
lies will come again
barred entry
faced with a wall
doors close
head spins and i am lost again
shoulder blades
sharp as knives
i want you
back to zero again
scrape me off
of your frying pan
fading away again
painted black
lips an 'o'
circular patterns
run your rings around me again
blinking eyes
of slow insanity
look through shades
make me grey again

get real pleasure

someday you will ache like i ache [03 Jan 2004|03:07pm]
Mascara stains
In girl shape
Melting away
In floods of salt water
Rolling down hills
In girl shape
Everlasting imprint
Of what was important
Ruined brush strokes
Like dreams
In girl shape
To cry is to love
To dream is to fear
And life is the pain
Break out from inside
The mould of birth
Stretched and distorted
Paint of forever
Charcoal black chambers
Tracing outlines
In girl shape
Cave in and crumble
Recycle the taste
Liquid perfection
Untouchable beauty
In girl shape
5 sick of sex| get real pleasure

[10 Dec 2003|06:42pm]
i have a passion for leggings. that is sick and wrong.
5 sick of sex| get real pleasure

...and the mirror girl just cries and cries [11 Nov 2003|06:38pm]
[ mood | none ]

where right is left
far far away its all mundane
but at least the same
mediocrity the saviour
the messiah never came
holding hands in the darkness
too dark to see the beauty
here everything looks the same
push it all inside
until there is a 'you'
invoke the heart and brain
become the surroundings
there is always suffering
just at different frequencies
escape doesn't reply
to the calls of those who crave

get real pleasure

ooh. [02 Nov 2003|09:23pm]
[ mood | curious ]

my hip bones are as wide apart as my handspan, does that make me skinny?

20 sick of sex| get real pleasure

abuse me hard. [02 Nov 2003|03:04pm]
[ mood | dead ]

slot into the puzzle
deform to fit
glide together
like a legless man
its all so simple
hold the hand
kiss the palm
watch lips dissolve
at least fit
the gaping hole
one whole
is better than a half
cradle like a baby
until bored
there is always
a way out
bore holes
through flesh like fingers
in candy floss
lick away the pain
that tastes so sweet
in small amounts
paint it blue
to alienate
take it in
to alleviate
soothe with fingertips
so smooth
and definitionless
like love
deform to fit
hold on to hurt
come inside.

2 sick of sex| get real pleasure

blahblahblah. [i live for silence] [30 Oct 2003|09:02pm]
i feel nothing.
2 sick of sex| get real pleasure

self-obsession. [25 Oct 2003|04:38pm]
[ mood | awake ]

wake up from this dream you must be alive to be dreaming
and all the things you must be dead to feeling
i buried your ashes under my bed
i slept with your carcass right next to my head
sweet meat, raw and sore
guide my hand with this picture i draw
without concept chained by ideals
putting a tick by absent meals
food alive and running free
drawing this picture that will never be
complete, one does not lead to two
nor these words to an ending or away from this blue
sweat as the pain is a blessing
sew through the beads confessing
the lack of sins, belief or anything
ethereal girl floats through the painting
leaving ghost trails, leaving faint lipstick traces
kiss the mouth to blot out the faces
just once, lips that are erasers
no past, no future no line and no saviours
crave an ending to a story never started
ghost girl needs to be one of the broken hearted
wasting away in a portrait unfinished
you want you want as this life diminishes
calling to you the clock tick tocks
whispers to you in paper thin frocks
melt away into the unknown
wipe away your seeds not grown
drown in the quiet and see the sublime
exit the life you went through in mime
i dug up her ashes from under the soil
seeds i had sown i paint of turmoil
wraith girl you haven't seen all there is to see
come finish this picture, paint in a 'me'

3 sick of sex| get real pleasure

Walking Zero [14 Sep 2003|05:06pm]
[ mood | crazy ]

Sacrifice my vanity,
kick off my heels
A careless weight on your hatred
Understand it's so simple,
a simple please
To keep the faithful on wounded knee
To the madness I do confess
I never see myself as blessed,
confused, unaddressed,
Like a saviour I do caress,
The truth is boredom more or less,
unused, obsessed,
My time is only given up to you,
too much to choose,
It's not mine to contemplate if
I can lose,
With this blood on my shoes.
Compromise in full extreme,
cut off my heels,
Name a price
on what's sacred.
Guaranteed I've got something
a royal disease; Take a flood
to clean these streets,
To the madness I do confess,
Forever see myself as blessed,
immune, obsessed,
Like a saviour I do caress,
the truth is boredom, it's excess
take more, give less
My time is only given up to you,
too much to choose,
It's not mine to contemplate if I can lose,
With this blood on my shoes.

39 sick of sex| get real pleasure

[you stole my dreams and they were no longer worth anything] [08 Sep 2003|07:15pm]
[ mood | crushed ]

and i cut out my eyes so i couldn't cry so quickly were my stars scratched away blindly i etch their fading image on the back of my hand over and over if my heart were a biscuit would you break it before you eat it?

get real pleasure

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