What ever love there once was
has gone.
What memories remain
are tarnished.
The present continually
burying the past.
Our hands burying
our faces.
The metronome broken,
time standing still.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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
-
▼
2011
(705)
-
▼
May
(52)
- JCNYC
- tossed off
- Godliness
- Events of No Historical Importance
- summer game
- stress
- Scenes From An Ordinary Haunting
- fearlessly, or naively, we're braving the call...
- _ , ( ) & [ ]
- d id you notice when
- Sometimes you
- Digging
- in this darkness
- Don't hold your hope in your hand, release it int...
- The Ghost At Home
- Well?
- On Quality
- On Narrative
- vanishing points
- lifetime masquerade ball
- For Steven Hoffman / Gestalt Temperament
- Living Space
- Warranty
- When It's Your Turn
- infinite expanse
- how does the form function without reason? the ...
- Post-Rapture
- Ghost Machine
- a final death
- the pressure
- grains of sand begin falling like a harsh rain up...
- Associative Construction
- Will this rain never end?
- tongue
- Turning Point
- Between 1 a.m. and 6 a.m.
- Everything That Rises Must Converge
- the end of history will come in one final moment ...
- 2 things I should have probably written on a piece...
- black angel
- list
- Ashes & Bared Teeth
- on a circular path
- To All Women
- stare
- waking during a warm afternoon
- the end of winter
- boss
- Get yourself together dear. We need to get going....
- running river
- go ahead and ask...
- Mirrors Everywhere
-
▼
May
(52)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment