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Starongie

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(no subject) [Oct. 14th, 2010|11:39 pm]
Starongie
so we can mimic each other's faults, mock them back, throw them up and skip them far across the sea. drink the blood made wine and the heroes make aimless - the job done, the question was never set, the heroes must always die, it is the only way to remain one. you demoralize, you lose your mythology, what happened to the old songs; we lost our own voices, breaking on bird screech and tick-tock chirps.

(yesterday, no. i have no memory besides the one of touch.)
(i don't remember how emotion is written anymore. )

i want to see dried flowers and apricots, fresh parsley bitter on the tongue, the glitter in the dust, the paint against the floor. the wolves drawn from the ground, snarling at the sky.

here now, hear now, crooked - think or write too deep and nothing good, the shell's broken, live raw.

i'd rather stick to the wild energy of climbing trees and fencing in the park and forest late at night, lamps haloed in secret candle-light; i love how it always remains the four, comfort in the black matter surrounding the sides of vision and the questions. i'd rather still run feral with the dogs, play soccer with one, yipping jet, hey jet, kick and run and frolic offensive defensive playful; greet and meet and say goodbye, and he ran back up when he saw we were leaving.
-

Don't ask me what I want. I don't want anything.
I just want.

more and more daffodils i'd gather, and more photographic twists on things i've yet to try. maybe i'll fuck this up like a movie, or remember it as a film slide, cigarette burns on the cover. i've got things to make and things to do and art to cut and paste and redo and remake & yeah.
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(no subject) [May. 10th, 2010|12:02 am]
Starongie
'DESMOND DASIES EATS PAPER FLOWERS. '

tra-lala, my fishnet stockings! today's the day in our traveling caravan to simply get the fuck out. no hippos needed, no disturbances allowed. no elephants in the room with roasted marshmallows and the soot of the fireplace hanging with the bouquet up in the chimney, dangling prisms from fossilized eleven fingerprints, seedy seedy watermelon eyes and astronauts in ancient drawings. cavemen had dreams too! thunderous dreams to fly with Zeus - share a story of different hands. no nah this post-modernism isn't the apocalypse, baby, baby, would it make sense if i say it's the future - time-machine eyes now, rolling scepter of a magic eight ball, or some psychedelic snow-globe. fuck it child, this ain't supposed to be coherent, or accessible. it's just supposed to hover around in radiation till the icicles are suddenly prepped for war, frozen tundras till the streets turn blue.

i ain't here to fuck around, but dream a little dream of sophilism, what -what a fucking narcissist.
(maybe it's the dollar signs or the picture-perfect poster market, eh, eh? what's gibberish besides an action. it's defined. burn some oil for the flames. we'd all been waiting for a light show & the fireworks are out of service. think a new hobby is in order. ordering. ten for sale but i ain't got a fetish kink so cross that one out - or not, y`know, i can sell em too. larger wheelbarrow profits. can't keep the towel. towels are good for scaling wires, fences are a bitch. bring out a monster-truck and then we've got a good thing going. how many medals tomorrow? enough to plate your feet with gold and rot in the ground? the trees won't speak, this ain't a fucking fairytale, darling. what'd you want, angels? nah, get your puppets in order, which flesh is better, the one on the right or the one on the left? why the soap-opera dramatics? hell, broadway's not opening up new curtains.
.
tuh-tump, tuh-tump; beating hearts in loaded singles, more dots on the horizon & the view point is all circular.

somewhere in the abrasiveness of the system - swallowing hiccups - there will be a return of some intact cause to utopia. (but we're grasping straws - they all pull up the same length, communist equality or an over-abundance of choices leaving a lack (of any, any at all.). put some more chemicals in the bomb, baby. a harsher tilt of your hip. )

i'd like a little less collection & a little more direction, but i've lost the magnets & the compass and maybe it's all undecided.

more camera flashes - singlets, numbered with an ease and thrown with a flourish. missing puzzle pieces and gnawed cheeks. (why is paranoia just another game word for secrecy? - think i need less of a lack of insight or a stronger shot.)

peek-peek-a-boo.
(i see you.)

---------------

dude, i'm just an excellent actor. whoever reads this, hell. my imagination's just a train-track. clubhouses along the way. play a little game, we've all got lives to live. (and this ain't mine. think somewhere regions away? universe concepts twist with infinity and maybe this is just another finger-print in some empty star.)

what'd you think, the emotions were real? eh, break off a piece you'd swallow and write me a sonnet. - give me no praise or what the hell not. sometimes i think we need new rules.

let's fly a kite.


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(no subject) [Apr. 27th, 2010|03:00 am]
Starongie
i'm doing cartwheels at 3 in the morning.
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(no subject) [Apr. 23rd, 2010|09:21 pm]
Starongie
boom boom boom, beating drums (to fists, slam slam slam) tick tock, tick tock toe?
- who are the glassless people that seen no reflection?
(besides the wavering outlines in river water, hardly catching before running away again, intangible and quick)
sometimes the people feel that what they see in the river, which is usually nothing, is how they look. ghost-spirits.
but they only ever think that when they're alone, and no one else is there to be so earthly bound - sometimes all they see is in their heads and clouds and patterns in stone polka-dots and moss.
sometimes they see rivers in the soft skin below their hands, below the bones of their wrists. (the veuns are stealing, winding through the body like a harness). sometimes they stand and let the wind take them away away away, at the tip of the mountain until the vertigo and the wind and they could fall and not realize it, gravity thieved away. there is so much dirt on the ground.  
(nails turn into shells, shell creatures, and keep breaking because they can never build a home out of their hands and hide in it too, it just won't grow without cracking off)
it's alright.
they try with wood and blood and stone, and lick their wounds and think that if the rain won't get them then it might be worse - but warm. somehow the taste of the earth underneath them feels drier already, like foreshadowing. so they dig and dig with hands that will never be homes until they cannot hear the collective sigh of the earth.

-


release,
twin rock formations
twisting mouths, snakes swallowing their mates
as if to keep them safe.

-

DNA curves, 
pressed multiples,
three three three sentences only.

-

(we heard you didn't dream.)
(or exist.
or even breath.)
(was it what you weren't looking for or were?)

-

ink stains on record players are never seen
(but i blotched a message there for you.)
(if you play the record you can't hear it though. i'm sorry.)

-

my wrists are hiding arrows.
or just bones.
i have a lot of them.
two hundred and six of them now.
so i have plenty to spare for you.

(we can share a skeleton if you promise promise promise me three times )

-
.
blink blink blink.
in them behind the slithering clockwork of DNA, all capitalized - it's just synapses.
and nothing in their mouths but space matter.
so in a kiss they're lost together.
like butting foreheads to the back of their necks where their other mouths lie.
still hiding in eternity.

later they're just ladybugs or butterflies or air or trees or numbers - abstract and unending.
that's alright too.
nothing really wants to make sense.
entropy entropy entropy, everything wants to be entropy.
even science says so, and it's the designated religion now.
oh my chemistry!
that event was big-bang-ly.
aha-ha what humor?


-

I wrote this in April 16, ahahaha.
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(no subject) [Apr. 5th, 2010|02:58 am]
Starongie
still pressing arrowheads into the ground to give them proper burials, digging in roses and carnations and sending back all flowers to their birthplace, return back to the womb of the earth, child. just stay there. don't open your eyes yet. not yet. don't open them just yet. wait a little longer. please don't open them right now.

-

(on this bridge, life is not a dream. beware, and beware, and beware. -> somewhere else it is a dream, but i've set my tent and planted my roots. but if the bridge decides to leave i am destined to be a nomad. )
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past perplexed painted premonitions [Mar. 28th, 2010|10:00 pm]
Starongie
slamming daring darling - destroy destroy, destruction no pleasantries inside your head for me?

more rattling bones in window chimes and chains and clinking artifacts, boom boom rustling curtains window screens, provide a spontaneous monogram, a monologue, a phrase, a bit to eat. i'm too private for holes to be ripped in rags. worn wear them down until they're see through, more waltz's down hallways that enlarge and grow and grow, erosion timeless stretched - lollipop daggers gnawed for flavor.

ribbons and jester hats against the king's council, or the queen's, the final act of nihilism has been made towards the king, not the lady, statue frozen pose, with rolling laws of organs (tired face, feet pooled by his own famed red carpet stretching into modern days, whistling eardrums that pound to any songs that might still exist inside his mouth.)

boneless architecture - steadying hands to frightened gargoyle horses, flickering eyes to strange digits pressed against them, struggling out to toward today then tomorrow to there tarnished rusted alliterations skip skipping stepping stones against castle tongues.

rain randomly rest restlessly rust rapidly rabid dogs unleashed on plants, territory marking while populations take rests on slivered roofs, raining over over over raindrops counting pennies the moat created - nurture nurturing nature, dream on shadows say, no more fog for them to lurk in but the night doesn't return. (will enough of the rain erode the castle into a pretty little dagger, or melt to camouflage against its grounded skin, sanded down with giants. )

sea swarms soldiers sent solemnly streaming like foam against the waves which claim them. no army marches here. none fight here. siren girls call out with rivers in their hair and lakes in their mouths. cupped hands hold out perfume, marching bobbing heads in wake struggle dreamlike against climbing reeds like they are beanstalks with a pathway to the stars, glittering stepping stones above their heads before below under ocean sky.

red rover red rover won't sally come over, sanguine rhymes in rocking horse cradles, roaring mountains with the wind as voice-boxes. tilted totem saying thanks twice thrice two times ten to tomorrow as a dividend. (want what why what connects three different astrological counter-points stretched away from their formations? (it's the space between.) no multiple numbers but all imaginary cross-referenced )

drawing dreary dandelions dancing dangerously, castle mounds rolled with piano pianists hands still marked with their strings. tired bird crests like crashing sea beaches - once flight (flies) flows forward for fortune's fraction. the queen's questing in questions, riddling games with racing trees and rosy plumes of smiling baby demigods (they're not. it's true. they're flowers with raven wings instead of petals. can't grow, can't grow, just hover however you wish travel like a loyal pet to pale arms or raven skin)

bonny billowing broken bracelets but burnt - boneless apple seeds, johnny apple-seed where'd you go, into waves with other armies, marching down while singled roofs grew thin with rain and dogs howled to their ancestor's roots to climb out of beseeching paws, returning in backwards forward reverse, blindfolded ballet blown blue to bowing quicksand people.

at apple's core more stampedes crash and crush through, horseshoes rolling drumming rhythms down to break against mountain barriers - over crocodile barriers and fishnet and past the open sky but halted at the giant's cove or coven, past the civilization's coveted caravan's closed classes but even mountains stop the rules . ( broken hip flasks but it's alright a trail of bread crumbs would leave us home but all the ravens have eaten our pathway so that's why we turned it into gold and had the sun melt it like eggs so later on return we will walk a gods walk back. )

hand-held hollow horseshoes, throwing like reins at the stampede, damning dawn's dusty light instead fall like seeds into droves of dugouts. hand-held water cups instead of doves but drinking only leaves a metamorphosis and hands fly, fly, white (or wax-winged) ? no influences seen but all the horses have stamped out the timers when they ran and the dogs driven down dreams and names.

flicking fluttering horseflies flown far inside eggshells rolling down like skaters down side to side to side and side, over over (paint it on or melt it down into watercolors and swallow down the flavor.)


-

partly a exercise in alliterations - or a walk through previous lands oh oh dear one i don't know. 
( thank you. riddle me your own? )  oh dear oh dear.
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(no subject) [Mar. 28th, 2010|07:54 pm]
Starongie
"don't we all need aspects of divination, eh?" she says, rubbing her left eyebrow. sandpaper twirling against carousel toys, ring around the rosy. broken chandeliers curved in the cartography of old religion - maps lined with geometric angles that didn't fade with the wind. maybe something stayed, burnt into the crevices of the floor. "tick, tock, tick tock," fingers drumming, pressing a kiss to the fingertips - brought together like a rose.

she let the ash slip away from the spaces between, skimming the ground like a lost traveler, pointed arrows from a compass spanning ancient rows (eyes set to the front, casual curtsy to the unheard incantation, small smile to the memory, bashful or sinister, hands fluttering like birds, places neatly at the curve of the back, fingers weaving in and out, nail scratches like their own geometry against the skin.)

"maybe we can redefine. polish swords and curve triangles into bark, reason see as reason do?"

"maybe we can just polish swords and keep away the heart."

"piece by piece into a box, wouldn't it be?" bitterness, harsh, drunken apple speech, rolling eyes upwards, bitten mouth.

another shrug, slowly, deliberately, carelessly, "however suits a fancy."

"keep up the process for however long."

no answer. no question. (would have liked to have been one. maybe it swept away. weeping willow brooms. wind in the hair and in the eyes, ship afar from sea and sunken in a landmine. umbrella tree a fitting word.)

a yawn. "press on."

ships don't answer. just creak and sigh like rocking chairs, even without the sea. the wind seeks shelter in its synapses.

"tomorrow we will hum ourselves a song."
-

"you do not wish to swallow the world whole."

"no, i merely wish to devour it, is there a difference?"

hums. smiley face tree, sad tree, lifted tree, skyscraper, she steps on the dock and stands on a branch, turns counter clock-wise three times, laughs, whispers a wish. watches it leave, sink sink into the mud of the ship, sink sink to the roots and mud and forgotten river trails, underground worlds over built, deafened to any voice. hums. spins the blade. can't uncover words from the earth, can't undercover the core without destroying the ground. no super-slide to the bottom to chat with ghosts. only previous chasms, broken glass and hidden vegetation, blind worm bodies and passing growths. regrow.

grass like swiveling skirts, wind a widower. (can't tell who is the tree this time, flickering back and forth and back, the world is not nearly deep enough to fit. ) music second music first it builds builds up on a stanza there. nothing here has words but for music. instruments of wind and leaf, of closed and open spaces lingering between one another, within, in crashing seas daring gravity, not feeling their own weight as they fall.

(can't tell whose eyes these are. black like a duet, or red, or green, or filled with color or painted out of it. can't turn myself into a question mark. can't write commas because the road grew ungrammatically. )

no voices but a chorus. left to linger as it sounds so mournful, or alive, or everything. maybe nothing. lopsided infinity, spinning like a beer bottle. can't dive. no exit north or west or or or. (cat-cradle organs. twisting like a snake, or going once going twice, spin spinning like a driedel. ) more parenthesis like swing sides, no claustrophobic symptoms melting in the mouth. only air and not hallucination.



---

i'm too tired to be bored. i'm too bored to be tired. i've read and written my gibberish, i have finished books and i have chased tails and i have meditated in medical issues classes that are not my own. been having the Pocahontas soundtrack on repeat. it made me cry three times. (i can't rise enough hopes, glass blowing tricks can shatter, one five sick six what ?)
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(no subject) [Mar. 19th, 2010|12:59 am]
Starongie
three bells are ringing outside my head - they want to be church bells, Nostradamus and Quasimodo and historical inaccuracies 
i can see astronomy whenever i want too. i want a marble that's black black and speckled white - i can pretend i carry a universe there, like they do in men in black, either the second or the first i don't know but it'll be nice.

(i want a guitar in my room aesthetic qualities, etc. and a mini flat-screen. and to take off those flower things because i hate them a lot really. they're so ugly and boring and not lovely at all. maybe put in glassed butterflies instead. that'd be interesting. i need to go thrifting or shopping online and ebay and esty. ALSO LOOK QUICK THIS this i want as soon as possible i can put it on the edge of my heater and let it dot my room and i can make my own constellations on the ceiling. +++
+imagine this in my room. it can go where the current globe is and it would be so beautiful, oh my god it would be so beautiful. but that one is out of stock (but that doesn't matter because check out this lovely contraption!)
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(no subject) [Mar. 19th, 2010|12:26 am]
Starongie
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i forgot some things. like how i need to buy a new ipod because my ipod has been forsaken and held up as a sacrifice to the houses or the outside world or places i've never seen and never will because i cannot find it and this is sad sad but it is also alright so i won't hold my breath unless i am swimming underwater. (silently i wonder whether i can get -unperson to buy it for my birthday, another ipod, this one bigger and better. i probably can. and use up my time & energy eating and indulging unperson's wishes to spend time with me. ) but look how much content! 40,000 songs - i will never have to worry again.

but look first at this poetic justification for a song

I've let loose all my pets, let my plants return to the wild, turned all my clothes into cut-offs. I moved apartments without telling anyone, without making a sound. I've changed cities, left my family in the night, started eating better. I pretend to speak Italian now, I live in paintings, I piss golddust. I take pictures of everything, I collect unfinished sentences, I grow actors in my garden out back, I even hug bums. I'm completely unbearable, insufferable, wrong. But this song still breaks my heart. This song is full of death-row redemption and rose-coloured break-ups.

i like things like that. (i am going to cry because this song i'm listening to now is also beautiful, (emperor x, you go right to the rails ; go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go ! ) i like music so much and i wish i could make some of it. i should learn piano again and again but two hands is just so hard oh god i want to go to my teacher again now i will.) i wonder if there are classes for song-writing like there is for journalism, but i find creative writing classes/song writing ones kinda bullshit half the time because it seems constricting and based on taste and song-writing only matters how it songs combined with voice and music and the space and time with pauses in the synapse and other properties, and taste too. it has to taste good in your mouth and other people have to like it too and no, these things don't really work. whee, whittle me a contradiction.
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matter does not exist, with certainty, in definite places, but rather has a tendency to exist. [Nov. 15th, 2009|08:16 pm]
Starongie

“According to quantum theory there are not only second chances but multiple chances... Every quantum experiment conducted has shown, again and again, with dismaying mischief, that particles can hold positions contradictory and simultaneous.

Quantum theory states that for every object there is a wave function that measures the probability of finding that object at a certain point in space and time. Until the measurement is made, the object [particle] exists as the sum of all possible states. The difficulty here, between the logical common-sense world and the complex maverick universe, is that at a sub-atomic level, matter does not exist, with certainty, in definite places, but rather has a tendency to exist. At the sub atomic level, our seeming-solid material dissolves into wave-like patterns of probability, and these patterns do not represent probabilities of things but probabilities of connections.

The property of matter and light is very strange. How can we accept that everything can be, at the same time, an entity confined in volume [a particle] and a wave spread out over huge regions of space? As the Hindu mystics put it centuries ago, smaller than small, bigger than big. We are and we are not our bodies.
If we accept Hawking's idea that we should treat the entire universe as a wave function, both specifically located and infinite, then that function is the sum of all possible universes, dead, alive, multiple, simultaneous, interdependent, co-existing. Moreover, “we” and the sum of the universe cannot be separated in the way of the old Cartesian dialectic of “I” and “World”. Observer and observed are part of the same process. What did Paracelsus say? the galaxa goes through your belly?.
What is it that you contain? The dead, time, light patterns of millennia, the expanding universe opening in your gut”

-Jeanette Winterson, "Gut Symmetries"

It's almost as fascinating to me as dustfromamoth's writing on that we might all have tiny meteorites it enchants me, as if there's a galaxy of constellations in my palm whenever I run my hands through my hair.
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