finals

suck.





blackbird

spectacular singularity

jeune
priority
ambulance
better, best
movement
want
condamné
police
slice
lame de rasoir
was
putain
bandits
wave
is
stop, breathe
effacé
zang tumb tumb




blackbird

seas forever boil, trees will turn to soil

good morning my child
stay with me a while
you not got any place to be
won't you sit a spell with me

you've got diamonds for eyes
it's time for you to rise
and evaporate
in the sun
sometimes it can weigh
a ton

keep all your crows away
hold skinny wolves at bay
in silver piles of smiles
may all your days be gold my child

a necklace of leaves
spirits in the trees
and drown all the clocks 'til there's none
little indian in the sun

keep all your crows away
hold skinny wolves at bay
in silver piles of smiles
may all your days be gold my child





dryad

naktern

this year is.
& all at once, night and day, orange seats and soot, bowery and bedrooms, brooklyn and facepaint. paper bags. rooftops. car horns rising up canned and muffled from the street. fractures. snippets. summarize. like one of those nights. those nights, beyond fire-capacity sort of deal. near orgies where everyone's dancing and smiling and pressedd up so close and the music shakes your skin and there's hair in faces & over eyes and our clothes freeze stiff outside and sop off in sheets in the spring thaw, and the cabs are talking and the wheels are starting and the trains under our feet are rumbing louder louder like we're back inside, and there's in echo in our skulls that crosses rivers and train tracks, seeps into bedsheets and clings to aeroplane fins and stays with us as our bodies glide away and our brains stay back (for a moment) to make sure we remeber this night and these, and all the people we love, all wrapped up in eachother, all conch shells and dreams and webs, locks and things that fit together. & up here, i'm warm in my 10th floor world, looking out, the stuff below my feet (happening), its all windows and sky they're all out there (you, them, he is too), in one of those orange frames, painted in, asleep, all dreams and doorkeys, and joints and bones.

shh hear it?




ghost:machine.

people are strange, when you're a stranger

we creatures of the night (an assemblage of dark watery shadows streaming quickly down the beaten sidewalks) rush silently past others' defiantly public altercations, their scattered words hurled abrasively and throatily into the yielding, static night. disjointed and sharp they snag our open ears and capitulate us into a strange workshoprealm, where we attempt to sort the fragments and piece them together into a patchwork whole. but there are holes everywhere and context was lost from the beginning. where did the few words that reached our ears lie in the trajectory of the conversation, of the larger issue? we'll never know, so we gather what we can and devise our own uses for it. we twist and pinch the words into new shapes, throwing bits of ourselves into the mix, spinning new meaning. it's a reckless perversion, a twisted, indulgent vice. we are all leeches-

(two girls on the brink of physical violence, the air space between them threatening to collapse at any moment)

girl one to girl two: "no way, he's MY panda!"




dryad