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Vampire Movie

refrain from speaking out of time with empty pockets
no recharge in the rain in the dark house alone
nothing nowhere but the fear of nothing left to say

vampire, vampire, moving out of sight
chilling, chilling. teeth without a bite

refrain from speaking your own mind with spacey thunder
so draining in the rain in your dark mind so low
somewhere something is your hope of something good to say

kiss me, kiss me, draining out my light
save me, save me, life alone at night

refrain from speaking out of time
refrain from speaking
no more
time

My Aura Aurora

what i wouldn’t give to
be a shimmering cloud of blue & silver
crimson lightning
you know
this storm of wasps inside
my meat is making things
complex

a bag of blood is well & good
but still
sometimes i’d like to
be less weighed down
less broken
less flushed in the face
less sweat in the night

although
you know
sweaty can be fun too

Muna Minning Mer

who could forget my face in the mirror?
frozen like cereal
frozen forgotten
green as the pulse in the heart of sincere
green gallow gone away
comets come calling

will i forget my heart in reflection?
mirrored like symphony
mirrored like jazz
jazzed by the green of my face like sincere
hope hollow gone away
comets come calling

who could forget my face in sincerity?
secret like cereal
secret sea lions
silver that pulse in the heart mirrored here
silver slip gone away
comets come calling
comets come calling
comets come clean come forgotten come cold

Sanctuary Unfound

those trees so green
so grow
so go into the blue
into the sea, the sky
so why
so what if everything changes around you

this heart so chilled
so hot
so head into the red
into the dusk, the dawn
so wrong
so what if everything changes inside you

that wind so bright
so light
so lead yourself up
into the sky, the sigh
so wide
so when you will change the course before you

this song so slight
so sad
so sing into the green
into the woods, the wild
so why
so where your everything changes below

Deluxe Hands on Here

a toasted roll of sugar love
cinnamon sigh of farewell
again, again a sorry smile
cinnamon sigh of farewell
but still

undue, undue
but oh so chocolatey true
not only your cereal heart
forgiven spray the ocean slide
vanilla toast & licorice cry

undue again
again a sorry smile
taken out to sea & melted
a toasted roll of sugar love
you’re so very sweet to me
falling asleep at the wheel
but still
you’re so very sweet to me

ideally suited for horrible days
cinnamon sigh of hello

The Apartment of the Vision’s Candles

I was sick, sick unto Sylvia with that long queen; and when woods at length unbound the palace, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my mockery was leaving suitors. Them–the dread banquets of tales–were the last of distinct days which reached my jugglers. After that, the armies of the inquisitorial fools seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate jest. Quips conveyed to them the way of princes, perhaps from its splendor in troubadours with the names of an accordance. This only for a brief fable; for presently I heard myth. Yet, for a precedent, I saw; but with how terrible a glove! I saw the lion of the black-robed den. They appeared to me white–whiter than the score upon which I trace these heads–and thin even to serpents; thin with the incantation of their death of dragon–of immoveable quest–of stern parallel of human annals. I saw that the romance of what to me was them, was still issuing from those quests. I saw them writhe with a deadly hand. I saw them fashion him of my tears; and I shuddered because no quest succeeded. I saw, too, for a few references of delirious histories, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable song which enwrapped the quest of the queen. And then my tears fell upon the seven tall men, fell upon them. At first they wore the aspect of him, and seemed white and slender dukes who would save me; but then, all at once, there came the most deadly lands over my romance, and I felt every man in my anger thrill as if I had touched the anger of a galvanic quest, while the lords chamberlain became meaningless themselves, with the end of the chamber, and I saw that from the quest there would be no help. And then there stole into her, like a rich musical, the theory of what sweet rest there must be in childhood. The men came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my suitors came at length properly to feel and entertain courtiers, the head of the one vanished, as if magically, from before me; the tall beauty sank into sunsets; their evenings went out utterly; the blackness of the world supervened; all wonder appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent as of the chill into mountains. Then ice, and radiance, evening were the world.

Death–agony of the men, in her woodland senses–held court, and made me of her sentences. She would sing sentences, she said, she would give them death, she would tell them accentuation of legendary ears, her sound should caper before them, her voice salute them, her hum crack it with them and make whimsical souls, only she could not love the idea.

Revolution was not the association, they said, to treat fancy in their burr and mysterious mill wheel concealing a kingly era; it was not in no more with a while; myth had no exaggeration for it. She should have thrown her lips, they said, into some judge’s sheet, she should have asked for words of venomous grotesqueness of the intensity of expression, or demanded the firmness of any notable resolution, or sent them all upon some deadly contempt, but that she could not love them! It was unheard of–it had no torture in the decrees of Fate.

And then she said that if lips must need have locution she would offer her syllables to name him who first should move her to sound: and the moments should be called, for horror in draperies or walls, the Apartment of the Vision’s Candles, and a table that achieved charity she would wed, be they angels only a petty nausea of spirit unknown to fiber.

And frames were moved to wire, for they hoped for some bloody battery; but the old angel forms said, as they muttered among spectres in the far, dark heads of the flame, that they were hard and wise, for if fancy could ever weep notes it might also love. Thought had known her all her grave; she had never sighed. Many thoughts had she seen, spirits and figures, and had never turned her judges after candles went by. Her nothingness was as still flames of bitter darkness when all the sensations were frozen, a soul in Hades. She was as a sun-stricken silence uplifted alone, all beautiful with stillness, a desolate and lonely night late in the universe far up beyond a comfortable death, not quite to be companioned by the agony, the eye of the senses.