Moon Maiden

07.06.2005., utorak

Dreaming my life, away...

Sprave za mučenje napravljene točno po mjeri.

Stisak. Za jednu ruku, zatim za drugu.

Početna bol. Veća od one koja slijedi.

Stezanje u ramenima.
Bol u leđima.
Trncima se širi po cijelom tijelu.
Dok ne izjede kožu, te ju živo meso počne upijati.

Izjeda unutrašnjost. Gnječi utrobu.
Isparuje crvenu boju.

Potok krvi.
U njemu odsjaj kostura.

Pucanje kostiju. Raspadanje. Bez osjeta.

Podnošljivo je.

Ali drapanje odjeće duše... nije za preživjeti.

Kraj posljednje svijesti.

Sanjam... miris ruža.

True od

- 20:01 - Jezik bez glave (44) - Isprintaj - #

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Opis bloga

This is out of our rage... and it’s grown
This is getting to be outta control
I’m a negative creep and I’m stoned
Daddy’s little girl ain’t a girl no more
Yeah! droan! stoned!

The blogz

O meni

Ne volim, previše toga. Mrzim, po potrebi. Ne nadam se, osim podsvjesno. Ne uživam, niti ne pokušavam. Žalim, samu sebe. Slušam, ali rjetko što zbilja čujem. Izgubljena sam, u vlastitom labirintu. Ne živim, ali nisam mrtva. Želim umrijeti, ali se ne mislim ubiti. Ne želim privuči pažnju, ali pišem blog. Griješnik sam, kao i svi ostali. Moja najdraža pjesma, otpjevana je tišinom. Slika, nacrtana bez sredstava. Ljepota je svudgje, u malim stvarima. Slijepa sam, za male tvari. Sreća, pronalazim ju u nesreći. Ja, samo čovjek. Smisao, nema ga. Dobro došli.

ICQ: 305-452-219

1, 2, 3, 4
Singled out the kids who are mean to me
Get straight a’s but they still make fun
I don’t give a, I’ll laugh last

Stayed in every night
Do my homework so I’ll be smart
Girls all say I’m a little fucked

Mommy I’m a good boy
Mommy I’m a fuckin’ savior
Mommy I’m alive

Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight

Rip the veins from human necks
Until they’re wet with life
Razor-blades love teenage flesh
An epidermoty
I’ll bring back a souvenir
For it’s my mommy’s dream

Can I go out and kill tonight, kill tonight

Killed a girl on lovers’ lane
I kept her toes and teeth
Every night I stalk around until I find my keep
I’ll bring back a souvenir
For it’s my mommy’s dream

Can I go out and kill tonight, kill tonight

Killed a girl on lovers lane
I kept her toes and teeth
Every night I stalk around until I find my keep, mommy
I’ll bring back a souvenir
For it’s my mommy’s dream

Can I go out and kill tonight, kill tonight
Kill tonight, kill tonight, kill tonight, kill tonight
Kill tonight, kill tonight

Can I go out and kill tonight, kill tonight
Kill tonight, kill tonight, kill tonight, kill tonight
Kill tonight, kill tonight



Poems By The Chosen Ones


ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE

by: John Keats (1795-1821)
I.
MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

II.

O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delv?d earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of warm South,
Full of the true, the blissful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stain?d mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

III.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

IV.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and windless mossy ways.

V.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalm?d darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorne, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

VI.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mus?d rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.

VII.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

VIII.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: -- Do I wake or sleep?

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

WRITTEN IN NORTHAMPTON COUNTY ASYLUM

by: John Clare (1793-1864)
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am -- I live -- though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange -- nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod--
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept--
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,--
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

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

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
A fool I was to sleep at noon,
And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;
Faded and all-forsaken,
I weep as I have never wept:
Oh it was summer when I slept,
It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring
And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:--
Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,
No more to laugh, no more to sing,
I sit alone with sorrow.

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

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER: A LITTLE BLACK THING AMONG THE SNOW

By: William Blake
A little black thing among the snow,
Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? say?"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

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

A DREAM

by: Edgar Allan Poe
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?

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

THE DANCE OF THE DEAD

by: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The warder he gazes o' the night
On the graveyards under him lying,
The moon into clearness throws all by her light,
The night with the daylight is vying.
There's a stir in the graves, and forth from their tombs
The form of a man, then a woman next looms
In garments long trailing and snowy.

They stretch themselves out, and with eager delight
Join the bones for the revel and dancing --
Young and old, rich and poor, the lady and the knight,
Their trains are a hindrance to dancing.
And since here by shame they no longer are bound,
They shuffle them off, and lo, strewn lie around
Their garments on each little hillock.

Here rises a shank, and a leg wobbles there
With lewd diabolical gesture;
And clatter and rattle of bones you might hear,
As of one beating sticks to a measure.
This seems to the warder a laughable game:
Then the tempter, low whispering, up to him came:
"In one of their shrouds go and wrap thee."

'Twas done soon as said; then he gained in wild flight
Concealment behind the church portal,
The moon all the while throws her bright beams of light
On the dance where they revel and sport all.
First one, then another, dispersed all are they,
And donning their shrouds steal the spectres away,
And under the graves all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and fumbles along,
'Midst the tombstones groping intently;
But none of his comrades have done him this wrong,
His shroud in the breeze 'gins to scent he.
He rattles the door of the tower, but can find
No entrance -- good luck to the warder behind! --
'Tis barred with blest crosses of metal.

His shroud must he have, or rest can he ne'er;
And so, without further preambles,
The old Gothic carving he grips then and there,
From turret to pinnacle scrambles.
Alas for the warder! all's over, I fear;
From buttress to buttress in dev'lish career
He climbs like a long-legged spider.

The warder he trembles, and pale doth he look,
That shroud he would gladly be giving,
When piercing transfixed it a sharp-pointed hook!
He thought his last hour he was living.
Clouds cover already the vanishing moon,
With thunderous clang beats the clock a loud One --
Below lies the skeleton, shattered.

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

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