pathos

a devastating performance given upon waking
eyes lucid, still twisted with sleep
pathos breathing upon
my neck

an amaranth face among
glints of grey light
she smiled, sang and
exited the train

sounding the alarm
as steam so gently rose
curling into ambiguity
so i still count seven stars every
night

a restless battle

beaten, bludgeoned
back to life-defibrillated
into luminous existence
shift, shudder, tremble
praise, bow, cry
transcend cloudless peaks
to live holy and angelic
watch from aerial structure
the carnage, hatred, density
intensity, annihilation-
Redemption?
spiraling back toward
shameful earth landing
on a knife of
anguish
a trembling breakdown
of flats and sharps
rumble amidst the chaos
as demons
mercilessly moan
and the volume
grows and this
hellish pit becomes
remorse, regret, sorrow
blind and numb
in a stiff bed
of wires

melancholia

So today I made the absolute siccckest mix for my upcoming roadtrip to Seattle. (from Colstrip, Mt) It's gonna be a looong ass drive, but everything's cool after you pass Butte (ugh.) But yeah, the mix is called melancholia and the playlist is as follows:

1. Jeff Buckley- Hallelujah
2.Swans- God Damn the Sun
3. The National- Fake Empire
4. Sunn O)))/Boris- The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)
5. Bright Eyes- Lua
6. Pedro the Lion- Options
7. The Snake the Cross the Crown- The Contortionist
8. Wilco- At Least that's What You Said
9. Colour Revolt- Matresses Under Water
10. Tom Waits- Dead and Lovely
11. The Postal Service- This Place is Prison
12. Mogwai- Travel is Dangerous
13. Amusement Parks on Fire- Venus in Cancer
14. Death Cab for Cutie- Brothers on a Hotel Bed
15. Colour Revolt- A New Family
16. Manchester Orchestra- Where Have You Been?

Normally I don't listen to THAT much indie, but I guess I've been in a weird mood lately.

rise/medicine

Atop a roof and reality’s shifted slightly to the left. Every tree, every home-gutter-bird-swing set twists, shedding into some new and vile thing. The palette is all wrong; sacred blues, greens, browns—fade. Cyan skies melt orange like viscous candle wax. Black watercolor clouds are dowsed in ink, spreading like Rorschach.

I suppose medicine is all I need. Lying on the carpet embracing nothing—holding intangible things like hope or faith, I listen to the dirge that plays at glacial, painful pace, trying to love the soulless void I’ve become—the functioning drone. Each dose builds more gears like antibodies, replacing flesh slowly, methodically, cruelly. My diagonally bandaged arms sigh.

Travel now consists of crawling from scorched plains of couch to a mountainous bed with jagged, rocky pillows where loose springs lie in wait. An alarm clock laughs—casting mad shadows over my face as I stare into a digital Hell. 11:00. 11:01. 12:53.
Rise, mournful sun.