Dead Angels Dirty Wings

Driving the Jersey turnpike, sucking in, dead angels in the back of a truck, dirty wings hanging over the edge and I'm up to and out of my head.

Sunday Morning Jesus

A Sunday morning Jesus on a television flickering, burning and imprinting, leading and feeding false misery into somber mouths. Serving philosophies of dry bones until tongues are stale, panting, yelping, bowed down on all fours to get fucked in falling down on bended knees and my legs are bleeding. My elbows are breaking, my spine is weak, my veins are open and hollow like his.

Mum

I wake in a dead fog to breathe with a smokey breath and stare at shivering trees. The sole star above me quivers, the moths hiss at me. I sigh, quiet, lonesome, keeping company to the muted fishbowl surrounding and I'm wondering how people can become mum so easily, so easily controlled. I hope this neighborhood is not what I become. I try to defeat this warped dream everyday. I hope until hope escapes my head to toe beliefs and until I find it once again when looking out at all of them.

Tick Tock

Minutes, seconds, milliseconds talking and taking life with a tick tick tick. There is no time, no time, no time for nothing in my mind as the clock takes over the sun, the moon, my claustrophobic room. I watch myself bouncing off a bland canvas of white doors, white ceiling and white people with white personalities under fluorescent lights of headache hangovers forcing me to pain over the colors in my mind.

Depth

The darkest depth of my soul has become sick. An illness hollowed and rotting from inside out and upside down and through my mind and past my eyes and into yours. I've infected you. Teeth grinding, tongues clattering, lips oozing. You can't save a soul that's been slaved, bought, sold. You can't be a Saint. Not even a Mother Teresa's child. You can't save me with a kiss. You can't save the darkest depth of my soul with a glowing halo, a neon fight, a mouthful of pride's smile. You can't save my soul.

Rain is a Tear that Never Cried, a Tongue that Never Lied, a Love that Died...

A cold mist hangs onto your nervous lips as they crack and blister and freeze. We lay, puzzled, pieces, broke. The sky is mute, still, we cannot move. Your eyes glaze over, your body fades. My memories rewind and I'm afraid. My body battles against the hollow bottles thrown to the ground. I hear your black and white sounds. No sky, no clouds.

Today I wonder if love is real.

Chinadoll Pale

As my lipstick faints to a shade of chinadoll pale I remember less than a dream with no lucidity to offer, no facts, no history. A life lapsed. Flashes thrown in drapes of paint knocking over the memories, knocking over a knock on wood. I lost my eyesight and cannot see in front and behind of the mess that is me.

Lonely Is The Color You

Close at hand, I'm trapped between his vagabond fingers. The noise of Closing Time piano is distant and deep and somberly lingers. I hear it. I fear it. My thoughts have tried to hide in a lost and found of dirty sounds and today the tune is new. I listen to a lonesome Sunday blues haunting me with the color of you.

Wane, Wilt, Wither

I began my original Sweet Pretty Things blog December 31st 2007.

However, in February 2009, the blog I cherished for over a year was mysteriously deleted. Unfortunately I failed to backup the majority of these writings, memoirs, tall tales and stream consciousness insanity. I never thought my account would be hacked. Frustrated to say the least, uninspired and angry, there is no time left in waisted moments feeling distressed. I am starting over. I believe I have only matured as a writer. I will also attempt to recreate posts that are burned into me.

Some things never wane, never wilt, never wither...