A question of hs*

Are you hungry. No, I ate.
Are you angry. No, I hate

* Thanks to Michael Cunningham

Weathered

Going slow is the way to go.

But if going down, do it fast
Go out with a blast.

I can hear him

Everytime someone puts on a mask in this world
Dionysus laughs.

Roses are red

at a street, Stockholm

Every other Guy

Fawkes would be proud.

Anthesteria

I sleep very little and each day I wake closer to madness.

Do not you understand?

I love you with no me in it.

The everlasting pain

He opened the box. The things inside of it did not hurt anymore. That hurt.

Sense&Sensibility

I want to make you come
to your senses.

Evil

To do is not to be.

Dispersed

I have no feelings of my own

First,

I saved my body
and
then
my body saved me.

Adam&Eve

at a table, Georgetown, U.S. of A.

Bearing

the power to make someone happy is a terrible one.

plus, embrace the body

relinquish the mind and ye
shall have the soul.

secretkeeper: a gift

...so, all the rivers flow to me
and I flood no land.

Punctuation

1. Just a desire for your well-being;
2. Just a desire for your... well, being.
3. Just a desire for your well being.

Note to self

Before you plunge, know the horizon.

A hundred posts

Discourse, which belongs to the essential state of Dasein's Being and has a share in constituting Dasein's disclosedness, has the possibility of becoming idle talk.

Being and Time, Martin Heiddeger

I confess(ionalism)

My mind is not right

Robert Lowell (March 1st, 1917 - September 12th, 1977)

Skunk Hour

(for Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village;
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchie privacy
of Queen Victoria's century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season's ill--
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love. . . ." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat. . . .
I myself am hell;
nobody's here--

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

Robert Lowell