take the blue mask down from my face and look me in the eye

- I'm not a concept. Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm going to make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind. Don't assign me yours.

é preciso ter asas quando se ama o abismo...

(foto da paulitcha)

Fever 103°

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ---

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ---
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ---
To Paradise.


(Sylvia Plath)

hey, can you give me just a fraction of a second?

And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?

the thing about iron is not that it cuts. the thing is that when it crushes you, you sink beneath it and it pins you to the ground. but don't be afraid of the ground. its surface may hurt you, but it's just because it's the closest place to life. when you come close to the ground, you feel the lightness of your soul longing to be weighted down by the body of the other. you smell that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human. you hear the soft voice of the dead czech writer whispering that the heaviest of burdens is simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. and then you finally understand why neil young is so sure when he yells that rock-n-roll will never die. and it's just because it's the only possible soundtrack of those who assume physical love is violence and there's no point in disguising it. all the contrary: it's beautiful and when you face it for real, you can't help looking at it.
i just don't get why it has to be so difficult, if all i want is to have a quiet and simple life hearing to the sound of this violence, while all the boring deceptive devices and euphemisms are burning. and i feel fine, cause i know the verse already - it's only castles burning.

and i'll never be the princess inside.

you hit me with a flower and left me cute little bruises