people that make me angry.

Music: Natalia Kartashova plays Liszt - La Campanella
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&v=QihpVhJ-yUU&NR=1
Time: 5:50 pm

Anger bubbles up and hit her contracting throat. Rude obnoxious stuck up twigs for legs, she curses under her breath. She presses the crisp white sheets in halves and then in quarters. Fingers trembling slightly as heat of fury hiss out at the tip of her clear cut fingernails.  Tucking in the sides of the sheets with small tugs and presses, she cap seals newly made beds into tomb like tents of white.
That's you dead for infuriating me. You, you, and you.

I would hang you by the hair on the steep cliff of Cape Canaille. The salt wind would whip you silly. Nobody would hear your screams.  There is nothing gentle about the Mediterranean when a  punishment is sought.

Very Precious

Music: Lose Yourself to Dance - Dafttpunk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBXv37PFcAQ

Time: 4:20pm

Strewn like beads of silky pearls across the neck of a blue universe. Thoughts treasured like precious stones lining the peripheral of thy mind.  My breath echoes off your skin in soft thunders. Entwined from the roots of our minds an inspiration takes a double take to flow.

Awakening.
In the very lovely minutes of my time, I dress my breasts, my thighs, my feet and my fluttering spirit. Everything is in flowers and petals. A scented spray of thick cotton candy. If I tread a pebbled path of the unknown I make Spring follow.  This was the idea.  This was the idea all along.

So I skip along the shrubberies of my everyday life with exaggerated gaiety, blossoming joy like a fertile rabbit. Pretty flowers I bend down to pick, and they delicately cut my fingers with their delicate thorns.  Pain was a necessity.

Afternoon, in bed with dreams.

Music:Stacey Kent - Hushabye Mountain
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sn6Tol70BjU

Time:3:10 pm

Ripping a delicate purple cloth in half, it tears from the middle. A soft hum lingers in the afternoon air as bees of lust buzz in the ears of the unfortunate ones. Fresh, like wind rippling over wet grass; gentle, like a single sliding tear of the deep sea mermaid. A blanket of silver stars glimmer in humble delight.
All images crumble into one warm blend of caramel. The back of my eyelids speak time. Slowly I open them like one would with a heavy window. A world of sorrow greets me.
It was something green, something blue, and maybe a touch of pink that floated in and out of focus on the soapy surface of that bright bubble. The bubble you, me, no.... we blew together.

Sunny Windowpanes

Music: Submarine (Full Album) - Alex Turner
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0yA0Q1l2jo&list=PLkGaWn7zHZ8RahuElXJKt4W90Izt313aC
Time: 2:31 pm

I say this because I have been sitting here for years, my dear old friend wipes me down with a cool damp cloth every morning before opening up his shop at eight.
The morning sun basks me in his new born rays of love. A glowing affection is scattered from the point it penetrates the windowpanes and scatter into glittering golden cuts of fame.

Holding steady my sturdy legs as I prepare for duty.  As the the day commences I am granted with life again by a general recognition of my surroundings. I hold the weight of knowledge, of beauty, of sorrows and its inspiration. I am little appreciated, but the pure gift of existence, being assigned an insignificant role in the life of many overwhelm.  People accept me just as easily as they leave me, parting without a glance behind.  I thank them for taking their time, though most times it goes unnoticed that it was a sore will that allowed our fate to coincide.

Again, a sun through the window is my only stable companion.  Thin stripes of gold paint moving zebra stripes upon my rigid body. With our simple animation, we hypnotize birds and small insects to linger by our windows.

Downhill

Music: Candles - Daughters
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90mzH1kvznQ&feature=endscreen&NR=1
Time: 8:20om

Pit me in a vague darkness,
I love you like a broken chip of glass ,
cut clouds into abnormal shapes of deep solid cheese.
Everything seems to gallop past when a wait is under progress....
because nothing matters, only your object of desire is in focus.

Music act as background music, broken melodies are hummed off-tune.
Too tired to concentrate and too weary to write.
Black follicles slip out with a hair coated in thin jelly, and that is what everyone expects in trust.  Because trust can be broken and renewed, but it accumulates growth and filth with experience.
Candles burn with an earnest energy and wither to glowing dots of gold.
Cup my ears to a seashell and childish chant plays, rewinds and replays. "She sells seashells by the seashore..."
Aging is no sin, but being young you are too lovely to stay innocent.

Sleepy Bug

Music:A Walk - Tycho
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mehLx_Fjv_c
Time: 6:38pm

Sleepy bug crawls on the tip of your eyebrows,
Sleepy bug sits on the curve of your lips,
Sleep bug blinks with each waving breeze of your fluttering eyelashes.
Sleepy bug, web your hair lazily like an aged spider.
Sleepy bug hikes down your spine and takes a nap at the crossing of a vertebral column,
Sleepy bug, hungry, munches up some nerves.
Sleepy bug, thirsty, pierces the sole of your feet and draws thick blood.

Sleepy bug rubs against your leg lovingly.
You yawn.
As-fast-as-lightening-sleepy-bug-shoots-into-your-mouth-and-you-don't-even-notice.
Content, sleepy bug lies snug on the tender bed of your tongue, waiting for slumber.

Mango Slices

Music: 5 Years Time - Noah and the Whale 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8YCSJpF4g4
Time: 10:38am

On an ivory plate lies a thick slice of tropical mango, unpeeled. The skin is thin and depicts a paralyzed frame of a slow motion fire. The flesh of the fruit is a creamy tangerine. I cup the fruit in my hands and bring it up to eye-level. Having been kept in the fridge, the fruit had a layer of cold air hovering and shedding cold particles into its surroundings by the second.  My eyes were met with with a mango cold front and I blink to keep them from glazing over.
Lick my lips, open my jaws 50 degrees, saliva spurting a spa of enzymes, I enter a third of the mango into my mouth. Using only my front teeth I scrape a chunk of cold firm heaven from the mother piece.
I rotate the mango 30 degrees and repeat, again and again, until a cool limp piece of a two-coloured skin remain.