Sasha

sasher_copy — Mon, 23 May 2011 22:35:02 GMT

i'm so worn of being always against your better judgement,
for once, for once, for once,
i want to be the best judgement.

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sasher_copy — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 23:21:53 GMT

I still have visions of us living in a stained-glass turret, a tower all alone in an emerald field; lounging on a bed of ostrich feathers, covering you in red petals and chewing them.

Lucille Turns Into An Orange

sasher_copy — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 00:37:18 GMT

thickening skin, waxy and glowing,
tanning in sunlight,
saffron.
oblong breasts extending,
swelling segmented wedges,
growing to make protruding belly.
swallowing legs and arms and face,
until one plump sphere, a radiant earthen moon.
pores exuding flowery scent, citrus exotic.
brunette locks twist in braid at top,
like stem.
hailing in the house of our sun, milking,
absorbing osmosis orb.
ripe repose.

sasher_copy — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 02:54:05 GMT

you're lucky i'm such a lush.

sasher_copy — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 02:22:54 GMT

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lilith

sasher_copy — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 04:41:29 GMT

sasher_copy — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 22:11:23 GMT

noticed something when traveling to countries of foreign language: whenever i see an "entrance" sign, i read it as "entrancing." whenever i see an "exit" sign, i read "exciting."

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sasher_copy — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 05:18:05 GMT

selflessness,
and my enchanting masochism binds me to you,
with rainbow ribbons that swell and tangle,
kaleidoscope kite heartstrings in the wind on a hill, on a limb,
but all done now, fucked up what could have been.

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sasher_copy — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 01:52:31 GMT

"shot in the heart,
shot in the eye,
shot in the ass,
caught like a flower,
in the dance."

sasher_copy — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 22:38:39 GMT

The sand runes crossing your divided consciousness do speak of contemptuous monsters being slayed by flying phoenixes. Your cleverness helps me breathe without the need of oxygen. Blinking reveals the true visage of beauty hidden within your eyes. Your tears evoke a taste as memorable as honey. Entranced by the sweet harmony of your lips, I gaze beyond reason to find the oasis of your brilliant soul. Your essence is equal to the beauty of a galaxy. I desire to see life through your hallucinations so that they massage my viscera into an eternal state of turgid flux. May you always have stables of horses to service your needs. I relentlessly desire cotton candy lollipops. Your beauty is equal to the smoothness of a polished gem. The stickers hugging the fruit smell better than the perfume of ambergris. All my thoughts are lost to your graceful gaze? Cities crumble, skies ignite spontaneously in your presence. May you be as vivid as your hallucinations. Your beauty is multiplexed in contemplation of your multidimensional effervescence.

sasher_copy — Thu, 27 May 2010 01:26:49 GMT

I am Purr Bailey,
I am ancient yet
I move at my own enchanted pace.
I am Purr Bailey,
I will let the wind whistle through my hair,
before patting it down with licks of sandpaper tongues.
I am Purr Bailey,
and as the Girl hurries up to the house,
(because she has put too much trust in her friends,
and as she took a shallow swim,
they have taken her clothes),
I do not sneer at her nude human, I do not laugh at her breasts,
I do not resent her sapien form,
I am Purr Bailey, so I just purr.

sasher_copy — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 01:27:39 GMT

I no longer see humans as crafted, engineered animals. No more facade of soft, familiar lines. But the jutting of ancient chins and the faults of evolution - a kaleidoscope of primate. I yearn so much for my sloppy unsymmetrical cells to rearrange and employ chlorophyll and then I can leave this disappointing chain of humanities and be reimbursed with those of the shimmering, shivering leaves. Cool and dispassionate. But in my current state, pale pores and heavy breasts, their is a passionate prehistoric motive and eternal song and that is beautiful.

sasher_copy — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 02:04:31 GMT

Bathe me in the Nile - scrub my breasts.
Wash me in the Tiber - comb my hair.
Splash me in the Mississippi - scratch the grit from under my nails.
Drown me in the Tigris - make me soft and young and virgin.
Cleanse me, renew me, purify me,
With your streaming fingers.
Baptize me in the Euphrates - restore me to something I never was.

sasher_copy — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 02:53:47 GMT

sasher_copy — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 02:58:11 GMT

If I was Alice my rabbit hole would be something narrow and self-constructed. And when I fall there will be no poetry or ink, but music, instead. The percussion of my ribs cracking and limbs warping - tinkling the most conscious of glockenspiels. The strings will be roots that crack like whips as I file, funnel, fling through - strumming the earthiest harp.

sasher_copy — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 02:57:22 GMT

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age." - H.P. Lovecraft

sasher_copy — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 01:28:56 GMT

sasher_copy — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 02:39:04 GMT

inching inkling of intention,
funneling through each dimension,
sighing sucking grappling free,
splayed out before you is me.

sasher_copy — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 05:42:13 GMT

romantic cynic,
sensuous ascetic,
contradictions are my only parent.

sasher_copy — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 04:54:18 GMT

Sometimes it's hard to believe that I can fit into anybody's arms.

sasher_copy — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 04:47:58 GMT

Spotting the movement of flight from the canopy, she crawls to the base and shakes the trunk, peeling but sturdy. White eggs, glimmering with dew like the richest of pearls, tumble and crack to the Earth, seeping from within in newfound gold. And she knows it is safe. Hoisting and grappling to the top branch were her prize lays, she huffs breathe with cold and sagging lungs. Flesh-colored, weaved, comfortable like a vital organ - wind filters through it's intertwined fibers and calls to her. She snatches it and withdraws back to the underbrush, proud of her succeeded theft. She crawls to her den where she constructs her mattress of these soft treasures.

sasher_copy — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 04:11:30 GMT

I want to be the grass you sit, criss-cross, in.
Criss-cross applesauce, in.
Glowing green, electric, chlorophyll true.
As you drum your fingers,
I want to be dew-kissed and resilient under you.

sasher_copy — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 21:03:17 GMT

intuition, premonition,
spilt like milk
on the cloth of your kitchen.

sasher_copy — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 00:20:57 GMT

Everyday sailors arrive to this port town. They follow the undercurrent into the docks, were the masts become bare and the minds begin to seek home.
This port town is built upon bedrock - hundreds and hundreds of years of erosions, thousands of the ocean's kisses frolicked upon it's slanted shore, all to no avail. The war waged between the town and the ocean is fickle and cool: The waves crash so violently at the shore that strong men - aided by machines - constructed a system of levees and waterways. It is said that during the winter the coastline could be swallowed completely by the water's saltine coolness. Today, the transition from sea to land is short, the buildings start at the coast line, because it is winter and the current collapses especially against the packed bedrock.
This entire town is constructed of teetering brick buildings, stretching towards the skyline as the land rises upward on a hill. This entire town is made of blue and red. Especially now, as the sun sets into whispers of clouds and slants the shadow of the hill against the web of city streets.
This town is a drainage basin. This town pours everything back into the sea, and gleans everything from the sea that it can. Purveyors of seafood boast their wares and tell their tales of martyrdom and victory. Veteran fishermen speak of otherworldly denizens of the sea- too large to be caught by a man and too stately to be harnessed by a net- and nobody doubts them.
The most central part of this city is concentrated around the docks, as the sailors walk by bakeries and homes and the local post office. They may stop to send a letter to their sweetheart back home, because they are sure to have a sweetheart. Maybe they will wander through the street in a nonchalant fashion and attempt to avoid the seething gaze of passing widowed women - it is apparent to them what the sailors truly have in mind. The sailors follow a route that many before them have paved, a strong as any siren's song.
Through the docks, outside the most crowded area of the city – to where the clay-red buildings disperse and pepper the incline of land, up a spiraling, spindling stairway trail of tarnished bricks, to a large purple-shuttered building that rests upon the nose of a precipice, overlooking the town in its entirety.
From where the staircase path stops at the perch of the cliff, the pack of sailors are shown their way with yellow tea candles that wind and flicker in a drunken trail up to a porch and to a rather tall red door. On this door, written in a comfortable cursive hand just above a bronze owl-face knocker is 'Madam Loddesee's'.

sasher_copy — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 04:32:56 GMT

There once was a girl in a painting that hung in an abandoned house that was once painted by a bearded man. The bearded man didn't like the girl very much, so he painted her with no clothes. She shivered.
One day the man with the beard was very upset with the girl and he threw her - canvas and all- into the white river that runs past his house. She rushed down torrents and torrents. Bruised, she came to a shore.
On this shore she was dried by the sun, and the lapping of the tide engraved little patterns in the soil that accommodated her. 'If only we could escape these bounds our maker has given us,' she thought. She flexed her toes and flung her neck and twisted her spine until her breath was gone. And again and again, in out in out.
A man without a beard found her on this shore and he liked her frame and her form very much. He picked her up and took her to his home. He hung her above his modest mantle.
But, when he came close to her, he would say things like "Your complexity is odd, your pores are weird."