February 2012
Killing Charlemagne: excerpt from Tender is the... →
killingcharlemagne:
They were still in the happier stage of love. They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered. They both seemed to have arrived there with an extraordinary innocence as…
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confused. by J.W. Bouwman
We never speak anymore. Every day I open that page and type long messages of fumbletongued confusion, only to slowly erase each one letter by letter and never hit send. It’s an unopened dialogue better left unsaid.
I’d like to say that I miss the knowing of you, but I never really did. Know you, I mean. You never gave me anything of you, which is something I’ve only just...
“Your voice was a moan
of wanting against my skin,
and I could see it,
your...”
– Peregrine (via youreyesblazeout)
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Something about myself
I find endlessly amusing:
So in Canada everything is in French and English right? Well nothing annoys the Francophiles more than when you pronounce the names of stuff improperly. Like right now I’m eating Harvest Crunch granola and I ALWAYS call it Croak Nature. I know how to pronounce it. I was in AP French with full A+ marks. I just prefer not to. Cos it makes me happy. So there.
I know..
visualdepository replied to your post: Confession
sshh, don’t talk like that. She would want you to enjoy yourself and she knows you think of her often.
But you know how i get more than anyone *hugs you tight*
Logically I know
sexysoul replied to your post: Confession
you have to know that would not be the way she would want you to feel - she would want to to be happy and living your life as fully as possible
But I still feel so awful *sigh* the heart never listens to logic. Which sometimes sucks.
And you actually said snot. And that made me laugh. I am a seriously deranged individual. Lol good god.
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Confession
Just now I realised I spent the 18th of February in Disneyland and didn’t think of my mother once and so now I feel like a total piece of shit who let life take over and didn’t pause to remember that the woman who put me in it died that day four years ago and I am really not the good person I always seem to think I am. How did I lose track of the days? I know you can’t hold onto...
“She liked him. Unknowingly she saw her own tragedies mirrored in his face.”
– The Beautiful and Damned, F Scott Fitzgerald (via winterbabywritings)
“Yet I am in love with words
They are doves falling out of the ceiling
They are...”
– “Words” by Anne Sexton (via thesamedevice)
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decadent. by J.W. Bouwman
you trip my nerve endings
skilfully like magician’s fingers upon my skin
pulling tricksy origami formations from places
i never knew were there to be claimed
trace your command of language upon my tongue
gift me with the words i need to express this hunger
your fire is decadent, deviant, depraved
it consumes any construct i erect to contain it
i ache for your damnation
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for want of icarus. by J.W. Bouwman
i eschew the heights for their beauty
birds and stars can keep their mastery
i have no urge to challenge their reign,
these tailwinds only serve one purpose for me:
to lift my deviant soul high enough
so i crash down upon your rocky shoals
wrecking myself upon your hidden reefs
losing myself in the unrelenting surf
that is this exact moment,
that is your decadently formed body,
that...
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i wasn't looking for wreaths or for bells.
these written words hold me
making concrete
the worlds you invent
that i ache so deeply
to be a part of
(that so often are far beyond
where even my heart
can travel)
- J.W. Bouwman
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