cygnus olor

dear diary, le circque de soir. where anything could happen. act 1: in which you ask me of what i am thinking and in which i reply (in the shape of a howl or whisper, after dragging myself across a draughty hotel room, the highway, exhibit a: a juvenile glare by the bedside, exhibit b: lolita fingering the frilly lace of our curtains): my mind is a container of humid air, an enclosed archive tapered by images of vanishing swans, my mind is a abandoned photo booth adorned with torn out sheets of music, cut out newspaper articles, headlines before close ups: the brittle curve of a proud neck, the nape at the end of a long winding road sucked into shadow, a sinister minefield, an arched backbone reaching for the highlands. my mind observed under northern lights: a black car with toned windows speeding over a glaciated lake, suddenly spinning out of control, piercing through the ice. my mind is a summer snowfall and abyssal nights, paintings of dying swans scattered over the tundra. my mind is a cave of icicles, a hoard of deer moving like lightning, white birds caught in a sea of broken glass - feathers, twisted bodies, the feeling of taking flight with frozen wings. my mind is a temple for dying snow and falling swans, my mind is specks of stardust and every heart beat eternalised, my mind is how the sun manages to rise every morning, how hard it can be to keep from melting. (a faint smile as the lights fade out) act 2: (inside the white cube) a solitary person sprawled a the floor of a white palace, 1. left ear firmly pressed against echoes and vibrations, 2. right ear listening to the voices of the concrete walls. a group of spectators leaning against the fiber glass, pressing dirty fingers against the television screen, smudging their own perception and from serenity a swift motion: long strands of silver hair shooting out to carelessly brush the monster's cheeks the ceiling mirroring the floor mirroring the ceiling and the sprawled the sprawled solitary spider for everyone to touch and your reflection, your face glued to every surface the distastefully depraved madame d'amour, the silent voyeurs with clouds of silver hair, long strands of silver hair shooting out to stroke your eyes, the chin of your reflection, thin silver arms slithering out from every opening, tracing the outlines of your portrait, silver hands woven into the pair of miniature silk gloves resting on the crown of a grown child's head, a pearly white dove taking flight off an old man's shoulder.

act 3: (pitch black, voice-over) and all that you took has been replaced, what was left cemented in the skyline, you are no one.

sublimation:
to calculate the possibility of running into someone you know;
a simple equation, a downpour of figures, a waterfall defenceless against
les fleurs du mal. understanding yourself as nothing but a number;
how five is the product of every quantity of five that has
ever existed.

dear diary,
i am my body but my body is not me.

sublimation:
to calculate the possibility of running into someone you know;
a simple equation, a downpour of figures, a waterfall defenceless against
les fleurs du mal.

lymantria dispar

dear diary, we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall and float through thick shields, veils, membranes of defeat, of resignation, of unsurpassed beauty. we are the caravan children, a mirror cracking from side to side, promises worn like a crown of carnations. 

from dawn to dusk - a creaking carrige past victorian buildings, tall, coarse palaces draped in egyptian finery, moth eaten dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaohs, a venetian mask in a stranger's window, what does freedom taste like crystal what does it taste like to stay flying?

carried through the hour of the wolf we dream of dahlias - the slow strokes of a paint brush, crude oil, a linen canvas set to flames, distorted faces with serpent eyes lunging from the heat waves. we dream of violets - abandoned soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment, heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted, waiting for their call. what does freedom taste like when it was so reluctantly given? winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime. we dream of peonies, of roses, of a venetian mask weeping shades of purple, soaring high in the sky.

dear diary,
voices, i tune them out, the crowds, the places,
i think of angels and all is silent.


the silver fox, hiding, the amber fox in bins and clouds,
the silver fox pouring down in amber vessels, tranquility.

the weight of an hour

dear diary,

dear morning.

05.30 am it all makes sense, the city lies dead i must be the only one left breathing. 05.40 am ultrarapid, nuclear meltdown, the flutter of wings, cheekbones, concrete, his name the haunting cry of a violin. 05.50 am before the time of the murder (headlines: young boy, 15, dismembered) i thought that i had met the most beautiful man in the world. his slow brushes, silk finger traces, fragile shoulders, fine white charcoal lines. i thought that i had found the most beautiful man in the world, had felt his gentle caresses. beside him, before him, along him, within him, balancing at the tip of youth, swaying at the edge of adulthood, a blunt force, its sharp nature. church bells ringing, chains breaking, before the time of the murder, chronology our only predator. 06.05 am something fictional, the view from down below a photograph of an open window, the cool morning breeze and sheer silk curtains teasingly dancing with every whiff of the wind,

him, too young, a nosebleed, blurred vision, white powder, black horse too young, crimson winter, blood stained snow, ravaging purity me, too old, ancient forests, murky breath, skin like sandalwood too old, lumps of flesh held in fists of iron, a prostitute of a million faces vanilla scented candles, cherry flavoured lingerie, through the socket of his eye, my loaded gun. 06.15 am the haunting cry of a violin, nuclear meltdown, the flutter of wings, cheekbones, concrete. asphalt dripping, boiling, orange men, wax men dripping, boiling, forming thick opaque puddles, orange oceans, deep black oceans slowly expanding, erasing every shadow of the undergrowth, sweet and sticky, the spellbinding smell of tar. 06.20 am a flight of stairs, a pile of empty bottles, smashed up glasses, petals, mindflowers, torn out pages, diaries, dreamers, a scrawny black cat my sole companion. 06.25 am memories carried in my back pocket: letters from the white country. the snow, its tender fall, a grace, your open chest the mountains, your visions wrapped in pearly blankets the glaciers, you, crystallised, you, the sharp, brittle icicles. over the ice glides the powder queen 06.30 am the difference between a promise and a curse an omen and a blessing i must be the only one left breathing.

am limit

dear diary, the city will swallow you. 00:00 am

i am stood here, waiting, the cold wet snow melting dripping by the first hit of skin cold and wet wet and cold, the company of heroin bruised heroines brawling, crawling ripped off beads and derranged deeds under the husky streetlights.

i am stood here, waiting, from inside the club and bursting out of the doors she comes twirling here comes the wind the wind here she comes now the breezing wind with eyes like ping pong balls, with eyes her eyes bouncing off the walls her eyes like plates her eyes like planets her eyes that have always seen too much or never quite enough never enough never enough her voice the one of a crow a mirror cracking from side to side and her eyes darting straight through me to the heroines back and forth through me and the heroines and her pupils the size of the moon and inside this tiny tormented body an entire solar system, all the world's madness enclosed, the madness the madness the madness, through every cell through blood through pores purified spiked up madness madness madness her voice the one of a crow a mirror cracking

from side to side this is nothing like heroin my pupils the size of ping pong balls its brushes of madness the cold wet snow through cloth and bone, the whirlwind my whirlwind with eyes dashing through inner spaces otherworldy places like satellites tiny satelliets the comforts of madness her comforting madness her madness her madness her majesty's raving madness and i am just stood here, forever waiting, amongst

the drugs and the thugs rocking to the beat of the cold wet pavement.

une fleur du mal

dear diary,
bleak blue silence crystals love without a beginning, without an end.


1. our days remain the same, identical sets of limbs, regardless of
how we twist or twirl them.
2. time is a ship and a fixed destination, you and i are nothing but pleasant interruptions,
psychic drivers on the open freeway, we are cheap tricks, we are popcorn and a drive in movie,
we are tiny specks of light on the giant silver screen.
3. and then there is the ether,
distilled beauty, pure white noise.


he wore taped up glued together black leather boots, hair in long greasy tassels
he put a spike in his vein, pumped himself full with heroin, rationalised any
irrational action by saying; the drugs cannot take a hold of me,
i have got nothing left to lose, what you see is not a fear of flight but flying itself
i am a painter of modern life, through daze, through storm, through thunder, lightning,
shooting past furiously charged clouds, riding my horse of liquid density
the ether: distilled beauty, white noise,
embracing the duality of human nature.


what gives a crystal its weight is its lead base, a frozen core of poison.
concrete floors, paper walls, hooker heals as the beat of a drum machine
the sound of someone practising the piano, children screaming
even in a place where no one is seen but heard,
we will find the ether.

definition, madame de l'amour:
existence is a explosion of colours oceans springing to bloom change is only a constant
all dreams are lucid every twitch caught on film a flick of an eyelid a nail scraping skin
trash devouring couture a snapshot of our matron wheeling about france in a solemn overture
wrapped in chanel and tin foil a peacock painted in shades of spite senseless in her innocence.

euphoria

dear diary,
my tiny tempest.

ever increasing circles

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far, baby,
we went too far.

if i were to describe her like a spectrum of colours
for her ignorance – ochra, late autumn, sweet honey wine
for her inevitable demise – something primary,
pommes d’amour, saturated scarlet
for her melodious voice, words sung in harmonies – such a luminous occurrence,
lucid hazy yellow milky azure cloudy diamond sapphire sea
and for her stoic face when loading a gun – tyrian violet, deep brushed velvet
a thin purple hue in between the lands of violence and indifference.

and it’s crystal dancing with skeletal boys, crystal dancing to infinity.
euphoria.