klena: (but when the sun shines again)
Perfectly Human
by Miles Walser

So you were born backwards.
Your heart covers 80% of your skin.
It is huge—and it is fragile.
You don’t know how to chain-link fence your feelings.
You will find your trust abandoned and bruised on the side of the road—
Do not leave it there—
Dust it off and put it right back under your shirt.

If you don’t learn to stop apologizing for yourself,
you will mirage out of existence.
See, someday, that 80% is gonna get you hurt.
You will tell a woman over and over that you love her,
and she will say nothing.
You will sob in public,
and people will just stare.

They will want to carve their names into you
and watch as the pieces fall off—
let them try.
Your heart is a geiser and for that you will always feel strange.
Most people shut down when they get over saturated with feeling;
most people harden into hate
- into indifference -
because the biggest risk we ever take is to love without fear.

You are not afraid.
You are a cathedral waiting to be filled with hymns;
you are an infinite playground;
you are sky-bound and sprinting,
so cover your heart in goose-bump armor.
It will only beat stronger,
beat louder.

Keep hoping.
Stand up on subways and shout compliments to strangers,
dance, poorly, in public if it makes you feel better.
Love until it hurts.
Then love more—you know how.

There will be days when you’ll wish you were numb;
when you’ll want to rip your heart off your body
and find something easier to take its place.
Collect those days like bricks
and marvel at the buildings you will make.
Stand on top, chest open, head up—
Nobody will ever see the world like you do.

Never try to be better than the best version of you.
You are not perfect.
You are perfectly human.
klena: (Default)
The New Higher

You meant more than life to me. I lived through
you not knowing, not knowing I was living.
I learned that you called for me. I came to where
you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.
No one to appreciate me. The legality of it
upset a chair. Many times to celebrate
we were called together and where
we had been there was nothing there,
nothing that is anywhere. We passed obliquely,
leaving no stare. When the sun was done muttering,
in an optimistic way, it was time to leave that there.

Blithely passing in and out of where, blushing shyly
at the tag on the overcoat near the window where
the outside crept away, I put aside the there and now.
Now it was time to stumble anew,
blacking out when time came in the window.
There was not much of it left.
I laughed and put my hands shyly
across your eyes. Can you see now?
Yes I can see I am only in the where
where the blossoming stream takes off, under your window.
Go presently you said. Go from my window.
I am half in love with your window I cannot undermine
it, I said.

-- John Ashbury
klena: (but when the sun shines again)
This was posted on [livejournal.com profile] theysaid today and I thought it was beautiful

"Science Fiction Story"
Chris Killen

I will meet you again in the future. It will be 100 years from now. We will be evolved. We will be larger. We will be gentle with each other. When I try to touch your hand, my hand will feel like water. Your hand will feel like a fish. We will be evolved in different directions. We will be so gentle and evolved we won’t even be able to lift our glasses to our mouths. We will just sit in a bar, looking at the glasses, and being incredibly gentle with each other. You will gently slap my face. I will gently say something cruel. We will gently torture each other, not saying any of the things we’ve been thinking for the last 100 years.

We will not say, ‘I’ve missed you,’ or, ‘You look good,’ or, ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.’

We will be too futuristic to say those things.

There will be mobile phones made of water and seeds, 1 millimetre in diameter.

There will be children that look like shrivelled dogs.

Every thing ever will have a slot to put money in, and when you put money in the slot the thing will vibrate.

There will be tinfoil, inflatable shoes, and holographic statues of the cast of Friends.

Everything will be okay.

The sun will be burnt out – it will be like a black floating acorn – and it will be dark in the bar, and I won’t be able to see if you are crying.
klena: (a virgin losing a child)
The wind is howling with the side effects of Hurricane Kaita and I am sitting here relaxing. And stuffing my face with Battenbergs. Oh God, nom nom nom. I am totally going to regret the sugar crash though.

Poetry, for a windy night.

Flood by Angelo Suárez

We have become estranged, you and I,
as the stars no longer find the asphalt-gray
of streets, the somnolent moon your skin,
the sun the sibilance of speech. How we tremble
now at the slightest hint of touch, the latch
of our desires reopening like a wound

Watch me now as I say: In September's
resolute rains, you are water - fragments
descending as drops from Manila's urban sky.
Thus, you are everywhere, dripping down walls
and sliding off roofs, filling every crease of road
and crevice of soil. And on the rise of flood

floats the carcass of memory, taking
the muddied form of muck, filthy plastic bags,
venomous piss of rat. In this metropolitan marsh
where nothing is left but a squalid sight of swamps,
soggy lampposts, the third-world remnants
of a storm, I dip my hands and dream of fish.
klena: (when both our cars collide)
Having nothing but Twitter reposts makes me sad! So. Poetry.

Elizabeth Jennings - Absence

Jennings - Absence

I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing has changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.

The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.

It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.
klena: (just do it)
Sick of jumping through hoops that might be pointless. Everytime something get sorted, something else comes and fucking belts us in the face. Getting to the point of negligence, but no one will hold themselves accountable. I just want him home.

Relax by Ellen Bass

Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours, for a month.
Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
klena: (when both our cars collide)
So. As my roller-coastery tweets might communicate to people, the past two weeks have been swinging from cluster-fuck to resolution back into cluster-fuck. It's been getting a lot harder to cope the last few days, particularly with the business being quieter and our anniversary approaching and my mood dropping dramatically.

I'd been toying with making a seperate LJ filter for being in the know of The Situation, and adding some people that I trust, but I keep not doing it.
Number 1, because it'd just be filled with swearing and rage and lots of negativity
and
Number 2, because it's probably only of interest to me.
So that plan went out the window.

I keep feeling a little crazy!face though. Like I want to go and bleach all my hair and dye it some bright obnoxious colour like Clementine or to smash glass bottles against a wall or to scream lots. It's not nice.

Been wanting to pick up my sketchbook again too, and do fanart. Not anything of my own, don't feel creative enough again for that, but fanart for all the awesome "Inception" fics I've read, particularly [livejournal.com profile] foxxcub's non-fic fake!boyfriends and for [livejournal.com profile] whitehaiku's no-longer "Skeptics And Innocents" and for [livejournal.com profile] philosiraptors and [livejournal.com profile] mrsronweasley's "Becoming Joan" verse. However my sketchbook still sits on the architect desk.

Mother's Meeting this week went a little awry as [livejournal.com profile] rogue_dreams was unable to come as she was engaging in Epic Baking in preparation for Maelstrom and Emma was on her way to mine when she got called to the police station (she's a trainer lawyer and was on call tonight). So it was just me and Hannah, and I cooked. For those who know, I am not a confident cook and worry about fucking it up a lot. But tonight I cooked Lemon Chicken and Courgette Pasta and it was pretty fucking tasty. I am very happy with myself. Last week's Chicken and Potato pie wasn't too bad either :)

I feel absolutely fucking knackered but too wired to go to sleep yet. And there is nothing on TV. Awesome.

In conclusion

Tom Gunn - "The Reassurance"

About ten days or so
After we saw you dead
You came back in a dream
I'm alright now you said.

And it was you, although
you were fleshed out again:
You hugged us all round then,
And gave your welcoming beam.

How like you to be kind,
Seeking to reassure.
And, yes, how like my mind
To make itself secure.

And in complete contrast

klena: (Default)
So since falling asleep last night, I seem to have gotten ill again. I woke up with a fucking killer headache, my nose hasn't stopped running all day, sneezing tons and I think I have a fever. Great body, I really appreciate this. I was just getting better.

Not that it matters, the reason I was excited for tomorrow is no longer happening. Or delayed. The waiting and the not knowing is the hardest part.

I can't wait to spend time with the girls tomorrow and get cuddles. I need them lots.

Antilamentation

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.

Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.

Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the one
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.

Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.

You were meant to inhale those smokey nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with the loose buttons, its pocket full of struck matches.

You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing
when the lgihts from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.

You've travelled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the tv set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken axe. Emptied
of expectations. Relax.

Don't bother remembering any of it.

Lets stop here, under the lit sign
of the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

-- Dorianne Laux
klena: (used to be the right one)
I went to bed early tonight. The first time in maybe 3 weeks I have been in bed before 2am, (10.30pm actually) only to be woken up at 1am by take-away arriving for my housemate because they rang my doorbell. It is now 3:54 and I still can't get back to sleep. I am furious, and angry, and now everything else about our other two housemates that really fucks me off is buzzing around my head. I'm really resentful, and pissed off and it's probably the lack of sleep and the stress of the last week building.

I just feel like a bitch, all prickly edges and short temper. It's probably because something huge is due to happen on Wednesday but it's not a certain thing yet. And til yesterday I was okay, just going to let things happen because that's the way the world works. But now I feel all crazy and nervous and I want it really badly.

So I'm sitting in bed now, head spinning with the thought of it and dying to smoke. I don't smoke normally, only in the times of real stress, but now feels like one of those times.

I also really want to rehaul icons again, except I lost fucktons of the ones I really liked in the Grand Robbery of 2010. An Inception one is definitely needed though.

National poetry month has begun. Have a gorgeous one by Richard Siken, I love his stuff so much, especially since [livejournal.com profile] musesfool posted some of his stuff about 2 years back. First stanza before the rest being placed under a cut.

A Primer for the Small Weird Loves

1.
The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater
because he is trying to kill you,
and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,
and you are ready to die in this swimming pool
because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means
your life is over anyway.
You're in the eighth grade. You know these things.
You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do
long division,
and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless
he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you
didn't do,
because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore.

continued below the cut )

I really want "Inception" fic based on this poem. My heart

Nightbook

Mar. 31st, 2011 02:20 pm
klena: (Default)
Days ticking down, making lists to keep myself busy. Champion list maker, hopefully I'll get these ones finished before the return.

Have a poem, as it's nearly National Poetry Month. [livejournal.com profile] musesfool posted this around the start of th month, and I've had it open in a tab ever since. Gorgeous.

The Only Place

The only place a woman can go to be alone
is the bathroom.
A woman would like to be wrapped in strong arms
when she cries, without having to explain,
or huddle on the couch wrapped in a blanket and a cat.
But all over America, women crouch instead
on a white, cold monument to wasting water.
We lean against a chilled tile wall,
stare at ourselves in an icy mirror,
flush the toilet to cover howls and curses,
brush our teeth twice to cover the taste of anger.
We lock the door, fill the tub with hot bubbles,
take a long time shaving our legs and armpits,
study the way waves break over bulging stomachs.
We scour the sink and rearrange the bottles under it,
refold towels, throw away old prescriptions,
count bandaids and bottles of suntan lotion.
We turn out the lights, stare into candle flames,
light incense, try to pretend we've taken our troubles
to a glowing temple, placed them in the lap
of a smiling golden Goddess.

Outside, men who wouldn't know what to do
if a woman curled up in bed and cried
can relax before bloodless images on TV
and think, "She's only in the bathroom
doing some woman's thing."
Behind a locked door, a woman
spins the empty toilet paper roll
like a Tibetan prayer wheel,
chanting "Help me, help me, help me."

~Linda Hasselstrom
klena: (sunlight surrouds you)
The first big thing to say about this entry is:
1000 ENTRIES, FUCK YEAH

It's only taken me nearly 9 years to get here, and has been stupidly helped out by crossposting of my tweets. I never thought I'd get to a point of 1000 entries! But here I am. Have some celebratory dancing .gifs!





I feel that adequately celebrates 1000 entries! I've been planning on writing this entry for about 3 weeks, but just haven't got around to it, or wanted to have a lot of good content and then I got distracted by lots of Inception fics so. Well. But I did go back and look at my very first LJ entry, oh my Lord.

I was 15, and this December I will turn 25. I honestly cannot believe how much has changed in that time. But then again, it was the period where people go through the biggest personality overhauls so it's not much of a surprise. It still was a little embarrassing, and also sort of sad to see me discussing people who aren't in my life anymore. But that's the way it goes.

I was going to do this huge thoughtful entry, but it's not really in my head, so instead I'm going to post a few little bits from the internet that have made me happy the past few weeks.

First! Poetry! One of Audrey Hepburn's favourite poems.

Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,
In life after life, in age after age forever.
My spell-bound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms

In life after life, in age after age forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,
Its ancient tale of being apart or together,
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:

You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount
At the heart of time love of one for another.
We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell -
Old love, but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you,
The love of all man's days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life,
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -
And the songs of everypoet both past and forever.

How beautiful is that?

Second! An excellent quote from Tim Minchin that I discovered, when trying to find a download of his song "White Wine in the Sun" , which is a gorgeous non-Christian Christmas song. Here's the song on Youtube if you fancy a listen! White Wine In The Sun.

Anyway, he was discussing the controversy behind the song and was asked "Your song "White Wine in the Sun", which includes lyrics critical of Christianity, caused controversy last week in Australia when it was used on an album of Christmas songs sold to raise money for the Salvation Army. What's your take on the fuss?

I think the Salvos are idiots. I didn't know they would benefit from the CD, but by the time I found out I didn't want to make too much of a fuss. So I gave my song free, then they turn around and say that they don't agree with the sentiment of the song. Obviously, they are talking about how I think Jesus is not magic. Part of me is hugely outraged by what imbeciles they are, to bite the hand that feeds them and put their proselytising above charity.

It's a terrible paradox that most charities are driven by religious belief. I believe very strongly in giving only to secular charities, because I don't think there should be a back end to altruism. I won't make this mistake again. I tweeted that if people want to buy my version of the song independently, I'll give the proceeds away, as I did last year, to the National Autistic Society, a non-proselytising charity.

Christmas means much to billions of people who don't believe in Jesus, and if you think that Christmas without Jesus is not Christmas, then you're out of touch, and if you think altruism without Jesus is not altruism, then you're a dick.


What a wonderful sentiment, and really true. That last paragraph is the most important part, and the bit that made me nod and smile at the screen. It also doesn't hurt that the song is wonderful, and makes my heart just clench with joy listening to it.

Third and final! Who thinks today's A Softer World strip needs to be have an "Inception" re-imagining?



Fucking heartbreaking, but could turned into any pairing that people wanted. The first idea I had was a Mal/Cobb version, based on those arguments that Mal actually was right, and did wake up, and watches over Cobb as he lives in his dream!reality. Which also really works with the alt-text over the image: "Please don't leave me alone with our stupid children"

Yes yes?

To everyone who read this, well done! You deserve nice shiny things. Since it's been a 1000 entries, maybe I should start being more active with posting. If you still read my journal, then you should comment! Or let me know, especially if this is the only way you know me :)

klena: (Default)
Rare (lost) Words

palelimbs:

tristifical - causing to be sad or mournful.
eternitarian - one who believes in the eternity of the soul.
cosmogyral - whirling round the universe.
siagonology - study of jaw-bones.
autexousious - exercising or possessing free will.
nepheliad - cloud-nymph.
gardeviance - chest for valuables; a travelling trunk.
ictuate - to emphasize.
senticous - prickly; thorny.
interfation - act of interrupting another while speaking.
nequient - not being able.
sparsile - of a star, not included in any constellation.
perantique - very antique or ancient.
vacivity - emptiness.
redamancy - act of loving in return.
starrify - to decorate with stars; to make into a star.


Oh how I love these. I love words so much
klena: (Default)
I had quite a good night out last night! Although from the way my legs hurt now, 9 minutes of hardcore skanking after months of not dancing was maybe not the way to go! Oh well, thanks for the joy Fab Cafe!

Poem:

Girls

When he leaves,
he leaves a space,
a big or little airless place
that begs to be filled.
A part of the weekend that says
What are you going to do now?

And you think if you fill it up
you'll survive.
So you work and clean and call
and cook and write and drink
and eat and sleep and shop
and say This is fine this is fine.
You can do this.

Laugh and go out drinking
with your friends when it's over.
Call everyone you know and say
whatever.
Shrug, clear your throat.

It's kind of like losing a dog.
You'll miss him
but maybe it's better this way.

His friends are still your friends
sometimes
and they watch you
because they send him messages
about how you're doing.
Sometimes they figure now is their chance
and they tell you they've always had it bad
for you.

Be careful with his friends.

So cut your hair
and learn to play guitar.
Walk fast and yell back
at bike messengers who tell you
what they'd do to you
if you were theirs.

Stop wearing his coat and sell his CDs.
White out his name in your address book.
Buy new perfume and learn to masturbate
with the showerhead.
Turn the pain into something you can use.

And when it feels like you're imploding,
like you're the only one
who wants to lie down in the street,
know that there will always be girls
who stream through this city
with their mouths slightly open
trying to breathe
and waiting to be kissed.

~Nicole Blackman
klena: (sunlight surrouds you)
Niagra Falls Jumper Explains | Karla Huston

I wasn’t trying to kill myself,
not really. It was just there:
the water and the falling
music of it. I was in need
of that sort of rush,
a sort of deathsong baptism
like the day I drove across
a bridge and had this urge
to accelerate and aim
for the side, dive over
the abutment and rush past
every temptation.
I just closed my eyes and mouth
and let the water hold me,
the cold cocoon of it
tumbling and throwing me
against everything
that had ever gone wrong.
klena: (going down swinging)
Slow Dance | Tim Seibles

Some days I can go nearly an hour
without thinking of the taste
of your mouth. Right now, I’m at school
watching teenagers fidget through a test.
Outside, the sky is smoky and streets are wet
and two grackles step lightly in yellow grass.

Two weeks ago in Atlantic City
I stood on the boardwalk
and looked out across the water -
the railing was cool, broken shells
dappled the beach – I had been
playing the slot machines
and lost all but a dollar. I
tried to picture you in Paris,
learning the sound of your new country
where, at that moment, it was already night.

I thought maybe you’d be out
walking with the street lights
glossing your lips, with your eyes
deep as this field of water.
Maybe someone was looking at you
as you paused under the awning
of a bakery where the smell
of newly risen bread buttered the air.

I remember those suede boots
you wore to the party last December,
your clipped hair, your long arms
like the necks of swans. I remember
how seeing the shape of your mouth
that first time, I kept staring
until my blood turned to rain.

Some things take root
in the brain and just don’t
let go. We went to
a movie once – I think
it was “The Dead” – and
near the end a woman
told a story about a boy
who used to sing: how, at 17,
she loved him, how that
same year he died. She
remembered late one night
looking out to the garden
and he was there calling her
with only the slow sound
in his eyes.

Missing someone is like hearing
a name sung quietly from somewhere
behind you. Even after you know
no one is there, you keep looking back
until on a silver afternoon like this
you find yourself breathing just enough
to make a small dent in the air.

Just now a student, an ivory-colored girl
whose nose crinkles when she laughs, asked me
if she could “go to the bathroom,”
and suddenly I knew I was old enough
to never ask that question again.

When I look back across my life,
I always see the schoolyard -
monkey-bars, gray asphalt, and one huge tree -
where I played the summer days into rags.
I didn’t love anybody yet, except maybe
my parents who I loved mainly when they
left me alone. I used to have wet dreams
about a girl named Diane. She was a little
older than me. I wanted to kiss her so bad
that just walking past her house
I would trip over nothing but the chance
that she’d be on the porch. Sometimes
she’d wear these cut-off jeans, and
a scar shaped like an acorn shone
above her knee. In some dreams I would
barely touch it, then explode. Once

in real life, at a party on Sharpnack Street
I asked her to dance a slow one with me.
The Delfonics were singing I’ll never
hear the bells and, scared nearly blind,
I pulled her into the sleepy rhythm
where my body tried to explain.
But half-a-minute deep into the song
she broke my nervous grip and walked away -
she could tell I didn’t know
what to do with my feet. I wonder
where she is now, and all those people
who saw me standing there
with the music filling my hands.

Woman, I miss you, and some afternoons
it’s all right. I think of that lemon drink
you used to make and the stories -
about your grandmother, about the bees
that covered your house in Africa, the nights
of gunfire, and the massing of giant frogs
in the rain. I think about the first time
I put my arm around your shoulder. I think
of couscous and white tuna, that one lamp
blinking on and off by itself, and those plums
that would brood for days on the kitchen counter.

I remember holding you against the sink,
with the sun soaking the window, the soft call
of your hips, and the intricate flickers
of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth,
like a Saturday. I remember your
long thighs, how they
opened on the sofa, and the pulse
of your cry when you came, and
sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.

I think about these students
in class this afternoon, itching
through this hour, their bodies new
to puberty, their brains streaked
with grammar – probably none of them
in love, how they listen to my voice
and believe my steady, adult face,
how they wish the school day would
hurry past, so they could start
spending their free time again, how
none of them really understands
what the clock is always teaching
about the way things disappear.

poetry mood

Aug. 2nd, 2010 02:00 pm
klena: (going down swinging)
If I Should Die Before You Do
-Richard Brautigan


When
you wake up
from death,
you will find yourself
in my arms,
and
I will be
kissing you,
and
I
will be crying.

Poetry

Aug. 1st, 2010 01:44 am
klena: (Default)
Coda
Peter Gizzi

When the sky came down
there was wind, water, red

When the sky fell
it became water, wind
a declaration in blue

When the end was near
I picked up for a moment, joy
came into my voice

Hurry up it sang
in skiffs and shafts
Selah in silvered tones

When the day broke open
I became myself
standing next to a door

In my dream you were alive
and crying
klena: (Default)
I have a list. It is called
A Life Beyond University: Never Aware Of What Was Around You

It is to expand myself beyond university, to broaden my horizons with whatever means I can find. Therefore:
- Books
- Political theories
- Philosophical theories
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I'm looking for recommendations. Is there something you think everyone should have read or listened to or watched? Is there something that has shaped you so strongly that it's a part of yourself? Do you enjoy giving people recommendations? Then please, do so with me. I'd really appreciate it

Still Grey

Apr. 11th, 2010 02:50 pm
klena: (Default)
I Loved My Friend by Langston Hudhes

I loved my friend
He went away from me
There's nothing more to say
The poem ends
Soft as it began
I loved my friend.
klena: (just do it)
How To Greet Death - Gabriel Gadfly

Greet death
With your hands in your pockets,
Slouched back, cool,
Collected, and confident.
Wear a hint of a grin
And a dash of cologne.
Say What took you so long?
Say You're behind the times, man.
Say Dead is the new black.
Coffin is the new condo.
Pallor is the new tan.
La vida muerta.

Greet death
With a fistful of black-eyed susans,
Butterflies in your stomach,
And two tickets to tomorrow's sunrise.
Wear your father's cufflinks
And your mother's wedding ring.
Say I brought these for you, babe.
Say Kiss me, kiss me.
Say But wait until the sun comes up.
Just until daybreak.
I want to show you something.
Hasta le muerte, te amo.

Greet death
With a knife at your own neck,
Chin up, throat bared,
Cardiac in overdrive.
Wear nothing.
Wear nothing.
Say Bring it on motherfucker!
Say Only on my terms.
Say nothing
And open your throat.
And bleed to completion.
El final, el final, el final.

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klena

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