Hold it like a glass
figurine in your hand.
Reflecting light,
an innate fragility.
Like the relics of a
saint, set down gently
on the shelf. Dust, its
only company until
memory remembers
once more.
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
-
▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
January
(50)
- Where You Used To Be
- The Course Of Empire
- "You Don't Understand A Thing I Say"
- For The Girl In London
- The Usefulness Of Others
- IT'S COMPLICATED
- The End
- Tail Or.
- Perpetual
- The Function Of Memory
- Another Goodbye For Another
- Bad People
- In Her(e) The World Begins
- Menagerie
- Born Still
- Sprawled Out With No Reason In Order
- Everyday Horror
- What would daryl say?
- scribbles from another page
- detri
- The Sunshine For What It's Worth.
- An Inconvenient Gift
- Slug
- Sun Break
- My Advice/Maxims
- Rhymes & Hymns of the Listless
- Champagne and Sham Pain.
- Hear Knows When
- You Don't Even Have To Say It To Know
- Trees
- This Number Is No Longer In Service
- Tea Leaves
- Lines In Succession, Heart Bound Oppression
- Back And Forth
- Peace
- more lines
- Spraypaint
- Met.
- Gap
- Glass And Past
- Proving
- Masturbation
- Je Suis Vous
- Rambling Love
- A Darkness
- Shearing
- Frigid Sunrise
- Ghosts
- Curious Flame
- Birth
-
▼
January
(50)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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