mcavoy sad

(no subject)

greased eyelashes, silicone appeal. some garish transvestite making his day's coins beating concrete with stiletto heels. supply and demand, monetary flow: economy. stablizing, variation mute. she knows she can't, shouldn't, won't change things. it's now too late to count the seconds, and his face is eclipsed by just black. a sparkle trailing down her cheek; fake gold washes off. the crystal river is glass seeping into every miniscule pore that was impossible to weave into the net of his flesh. "no choice", she perceives as an echo but his/her own vocal chords are ripping. "no where else." walking into her inevitable to meet with demands. "everywhere else is in flames." her respiratory system hissing and thrusting deep and arduous.  "you can't filter the ocean." his arms extended for satisfactory: breathing. she's unaware of the stilt-length of her arms. "cosmic insignificance."

(praying) waiting
  for Her
cardiac cycle to arrest in diamonds.

angry at brick walls.

somewhere, is a
starry starry night.

real gold is a wild thing.
mcavoy sad

(no subject)

"Finish up your current emotional business, for the less you are holding on to a feeling from the past, the easier it will be for you to enter the future. Don't try to hide your ongoing mood changes, for the constantly shifting inner landscape could be helpful when serving others. Showing vulnerability can be the necessary piece to tie up loose ends and jumpstart what's next." so the mansion of virgo foretells.

terrifyingly relevant.


risk smoker. (free writing)

the addiction to the world breathing, heaving, perfect. nothing real, nothing unreal. many superreal. but that's just it. euphoria of nothing other than detail. heightening your senses like pointy cliffs. the universe is so loud now. beat, beat, hope. dream catchers and glass feet. journey in notions, not themes. "you can not have a world of darkness with light" a man says on the tv. something about "earthly nature". i don't know what he's talking about, but i disagree. tom wolfe would put it as the holy primitive--- "the power of god, love of military service." ecstasy. "youngsters of long hair like my own joining the tribal nation." i have never been so happy. ideas of honey bouncing and joining in a colorful osmosis. atop its pin, the earth does not hesitate. gasping suns explode millions and millions of millions of-- i've never been so happy. airwaves, hushed, crashing, crrwooshh, against an entire generation! the power to pave nostalgia is now.

the inhibition of risk smoking is immortal in its ubiquitous glory!

ah, such golden trumpets.

mcavoy sad

word theory.

 crunch, and crackle, eating the warm coat of your callous, fondling condensed blood vessels with your tongue. this is a euphemism, of course. another coat. for another idea, which is just another perception. another coat, under another coat, under another. times infinity. this is exactly how i like to reckon the spine of our cosmos: a coat rack. just, wrapped, confined in the oval of a spotlight devouring the cold, crawling comfort of the dark. and adam and eve is just another euphemism, a gossamer thread enveloping the coat rack metaphorically eating the big apple of shame, of sin, of knowledge. to hide. for warmth. to cover its nakedness, to inject the terrible itch of conformity. then theres another itch, underneath that itch. nothing is bare, nothing is raw. except---

today, i feel like a spine. or the silhouette of one.

mcavoy sad

let's talk soul. (for preservations sake)

 accidents are a given, its external. its proof of my humanity. as long as i break a sweat but hold together passion, i'm fine with it. i'm a strong person, albeit far from stable; i'm insecure, constantly choking on my words. i see myself through other's eyes, i'm just that self conscience. but y'know, i wouldn't want it any other way. stability is gray, while i live for the extremes, black and white. i'm here to change the world; thats one thing i'm confident of.
  • Current Music
    lived in bars - cat power.

i like writing about eyes.

  you never really believed in dreams, never one to take in the world or its novel romances, yet now its heavy and encumbering down on your ribcage. theres the overwhelming stint, that ringing cosmic impulse, like heartstrings, muddled and tangled and long, and its apparent it could envelope the world -- twice. that ringing cosmic impulse of thought that you were wrong. lets disregard the intent, the throbbing intent. you're just trying to make sense of it, still, still, still. you go in, and you isolate it. the world is muted except your retrospective life, or rather, how you went about it. nerves peripherate and you're incorrigibly digging, ravaging through the should've, could've, might've.

now don't blink, but censor everything. don't think about how its a crucial human function to lubricate or filter your eyes. just filter your thoughts. don't even think about not blinking. feel. whatever humanity likes to call it, insanity or beliefs or ideals, whatever it is: it's dosing in. the weight dissipates, a sigh permeating in between the miniscule crevices of your cells. dust is accumulating like stars on the ash slate of your vision.

wrap your head around this: maybe. you're in love, or whatever.


and holy fuck, i just want a hero.
and that's good.
  • Current Music
    "dog days" - florence and the machine
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