music, mania and mundane musings

Sunday, 28 November 2010

goneded for a bit...

Posted by Acacia at 07:00 0 comments

You say "I love you boy"
I know you lie
I trust you all the same
I don't know why

'Cause when my back is turned
My bruises shine
Our broken fairytale
So hard to hide

I still believe it's you and me 'til the end of time

When we collide we come together
If we don't we'll always be apart
I'll take a bruise I know your worth it
When you hit me hit me hard

Sitting in a wishing hole
Hoping it stays dry
Feet cast in solid stone
I've got Gilligan's eyes

I still believe it's you and me 'til the end of time

When we collide we come together
If we don't we'll always be apart
I'll take a bruise I know your worth it
When you hit me hit me hard

You said love was letting us go against what
Our future is for...

Many of horror
Our future's for many of horror

I still believe it's you and me 'til the end of time

When we collide we come together
If we don't we'll always be apart
I'll take a bruise I know your worth it
When you hit me hit me hard

Many of Horror-Biffy Clyro

I'll be backs :O

Monday, 1 November 2010

Bad Dreams...

Posted by Acacia at 15:26 1 comments

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.