Did you hear that?

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The infrastructures spread out through the complex in an unwillingly strict way, like a fat man in tight jeans, or a vexed teenager about to burst. Flagpoles and green camouflage covered every inch of my predictions and oh I couldn’t have been more on point!

-Sergeant, captain, major twat. Yes, sir!

Oh god! Did you hear that? I think that’s my patriotism swelling up through the roof. I don’t know why but I suddenly feel ready to die for this country of mine. I long dreadfully for a mighty chance to sacrifice myself in the name of that little guy sitting on the velvet chair, maybe, who knows, even take a shot through the fucking mist, or get a leg blown off, in order to save a tiny priest. The possibilities are aplenty and I savour them all as if out of chocolate they were made, but the sergeant keeps on shouting, my hands keep on trembling and the pistol keeps on calling, so I slowly pick it up from the guy’s holster and… well… firmly pointing it it to my head I… Let’s just say I finally quit like that pete guy who ran of, all madness and green camo flapping around. Yes… just like that…only i did it in red.

sarge

The magnet

literature, thoughts, Writing

I sat right at the edge of the cliff; legs dangling above the roaring winter waves, eyeballs rolled all the way back to the insides of my brain. It was like some cloudlike dense form of happiness suddenly shot right into a tiny, silence filled, barrage of clashing waves and swaying seaweed, sticking to it like iron fillings to a magnet.

This picture does not belong to me.

 

Blurred lights

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Sweat, so much sweat. Shirt clinging to my chest like a fervent lover and the music, oh the music! Each note hitting the back of my head with enough force to knock out most men, but not me, seeing that as writer emotional beatings are as normal as taking a piss. I felt feverish and lost though, lost in time and space, my body floating in the void waiting for her to come. Fucking Alice! Or was it Anne? Either way, her hips had a manner of plucking shit inside my brains, twisting every string of logical consequence or pre written ideas and oh it hurts so much to be crippled by such a nasty creature like Ann, or fucking Alice. That demon who knows all and everyone, dances like a fairy on absinthe and drinks like a man, aged 40, with a depression and a mortgage. That fucking Anne! Or was it Alice? Either way I think I’m in love and I know I’m not. My head is a pool of swimming opposites and nonsensical melodies. Oh god I’m dying so fast! Lights spinning randomly above my scrambled ideas, I guess I could stretch my arms, grab some of those flickering thoughts and smash them against this piece of paper, but my hands are too busy as my eyes no longer see straight and I still search, on my knees for that fucking Ann, Patricia, Catherine or maybe Emma through the dirty floors of this now silent and swooning party, once named “Adolescence”.

psychedelic_wave_02_by_knold-d6e1sj8

“Rome” (with a little bit of awesome music to help me out with the feeling transmiting stuff going on in here, hopefully)

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Eyes empty, lips pressed, pain dripping slowly from his ears. There, in the garden, the man stood. On top of a poorly decorated pedestal the man stood, the man, the memory, the piece; stone arms fallen weary, broken nose and mossy knees. The proud look had grown tired and the curiosity broken free. His world was no more than a swing and a fallen broken tree. Slightly crooked, laurel wreath hanging tight fighting the last of the hail stones as some piece of past glory reminiscence, but down there, close to cobbles: feet shaking, ankles sore. With teary eyes and cracking skin of marble (ancient) the old portrait, memory, stone began to kneel. Last breath nigh, he screamed so incredibly high, driving sword and anger through the soil he’s brain began to boil. “I am not a statue. I’m now nothing, I only was” That said the piece fell down, crumbling into a proud little mountain of dusty rubble. Now the park feels lighter and the birds ROME free, the tree’s brunches  open up breaking the ties with the past and all is freaking NOW at last.

 

 

A storm of feet

thoughts, Writing

It was a storm of feet, dirty shoes flying like drunken bees, bumping against every bit of sane tissue in my body. Inside my mouth no words remained not anymore; only bitter dust and a scarce amount of leftover teeth. I figured I was dead, no, I couldn’t be, the pain was too sour and the voices to loud. The blood kept on pouring like winter rains, but I couldn’t find a single soothing window pane, no thunder sounds to listen to, or hail, but the lightning was immense like a night sky of dying stars and fast lanes. It was indeed a spectacular ending for this fucking Broadway show. “Please mister, just close the curtains already. I’ll take as many bows as you like, I’ll make them low, as low as you like, my lips will touch the ground… heck! I will eat the earth’s core if you just… if you just… if you… please mister just close the curtains…”

Silence was among us, so heavy no little crack or tiny buzz could even start to form. “This is it? This is it. This it! Really? Not even a single clap you motherfuc…”