Clay Penguin

It is time for repentance
Comfortably wedged between searching and enacting.
It is time for repugnance,
For redundant celebration of distaste.
It is time for a reprobate
To earn its keep in silver.

Diamond

Today, world is like a diamond: beautiful, hard, expensive and misused.


* * *


Only spilled bile in a cage of ribs.

Letter

I'm writing...

There is snow outside and my nook is warm and fragrant. Using wattles and clay I enclosed my cave, arranged fireplace in such way that the smoke would not accumulate indoors, using driftwood I set up tiles and shelves for crops. A gaze of my hoard fills me with bliss. Cauldron gently squeals hanging over the fireplace, porridge with herbs smells divine.

I was busy.

I kept myself busy so I wouldn't think. About you. But it is not working any more.

Sad Santa

I've stumbled upon Willard Grant Conspiracy few weeks ago while listening to Richmond Fontaine radio on Last.fm and I was hooked. Did some reading, a bit more listening and finally decided to invest some time and money into attending their concert at SC last night (Dec 3rd 2008).

Quite more jazzy/bluesy than I actually expected them to be having heard their studio albums they proved to be peculiar and enchanting experience.

It was kind of like watching a living schism, paradox in flesh.

It started with watching annoyed, fat dude ambling through the stage to his chair and sitting down despondently and ended with his transubstantiation into desperate Santa stripped of his powers, fairytale creature barren to mere frame – to humane, to identifiable, to heartaching possibility of common experience – transubstantiation being fulfilled by Robert Fisher opening his mouth and singing – disturbingly, aching, wonderful.

I've listened to them stunned, my jaw hangin' open, bright-eyed and engulfed in wonder.

I've listened them make beautiful music.

Construction site

Through porotherm brick I saw the first snow slowly and fluffily cover the asphalt beneath the street light. It smelled like construction site should smell: it smelled of lime and of cement and of wet wood and of dust. Snow and intermittent breeze rustled the nylon fabric that covered the building from the outside.

You bit my lip muffling the sigh, legs wrapped around my waist, until the skin gave in and one large drop of blood rolled over your glistening breasts to the floor.

In slow motion.

Surreal.

Green irises glittered in the darkness staring into my eyes as I came, holding your buttocks in my palms.

Letter

I'm writing...

I sit by the fire watching the troglodyte shadows waver on cave walls.

Small pile of tears and shreds that used to be a rope laughs at me from the corner. As in a dream I touch them and let them fall from my hands flutteringly, hemplike.

I wake up crazed by fear that I'll forget how you look like.

xkcd 334

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