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About Me Senior Member Nude Photographer killer for hire26/Female/United States Recent Activity Deviant for 5 Years
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"During the terrible years of the Yekhov terror I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day someone ‘identified’ me. Then a woman with lips blue with cold who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all and whispered in my ear—(we all spoke in whispers there):
‘Could you describe this?’
I said, ‘I can!’
Then something resembling a smile slipped over what had once been her face."

— Anna Akhmatova

The Religion Of Birds.

Journal Entry: Wed Nov 18, 2009, 4:35 PM
  • Mood: Love
  • Listening to: myheartmyheartmyheartyoucanhearit.
  • Watching: sun.
  • Playing: around.
  • Eating: his face.
  • Drinking: it all in.


The Religion of Birds by Megan O'Reilly Green


Everywhere people are mad for miracles.
They search their coffee cups, dunk babies
in holy water, pay 25 bucks to learn
to destroy silverware with only their minds.
Nothing is an accident, a friend assures me,
everything happens for a reason:
a divine CEO neatly matches personal ads,
zaps deadly tumors into tension headaches,
serves as the spokesperson for cellulite cream.
Even as a materialist, I sympathize with them,
the non-believers, the too-good-to-be-truers.
What do you call a flower that prunes itself,
a factory that produces butterfly kisses?
In movies, every house with character
must be inhabited by a throng of ghosts,
every brilliant opera must become a cartoon.
If Pinocchio never had strings, would he
yearn for them? Like spiteful wizards,
we know the threat of love and turn it to stone.
Only the believers are truly contented
to practice the religion of migrating birds,
to glide into a winter they cannot survive.





.

HTMPLY is no longer available.
Unless you send me a note and I like you and life is good and sweet again. I can make things happen, if I wanna.

But you can no longer purchase it off the site because I set everything to ZERO COPIES, so there!

.

Anyway I live in New York now, thank God. Oh, I like sweaters and snow and boots and shivering. I think things are going to be OK and OK is really great.

.

The worst thing in the world, I think, is having terrible things happen to you and other people are still out getting groceries and picking their kids up from school and eating sandwiches. It seems like they should have noticed, stopped, looked up - noticed that the sky was lurching a little bit more to the left while I was crying. I mean, they could have gone back to their kids and sandwiches after they looked up, but they never looked up at all, never got that deep peach pit in their bellies, that nausea with bile at the tip of the throat.

No one ever noticed and I think that was the worst part of all.

.

Anyway, things are moving along. I had a good Halloween, did you have a good Halloween? I've taken to demanding to be referred to as PRINCESS OWLPANTS and wearing those boots you hate. I'm mad and I want everyone to hurt as much as I have, maybe more. I'm drinking cups of coffee and reminding myself that that way of thinking is going to get me into a lot of trouble. That I don't want to become weird and dangerous.

I'm trying not to drink too much. I'm watching a lot of DVDs and going to the library and reading Stephen King and starting to think he was a really profound writer if you turn his stories upside down and read them backwards.

You know, I don't know, I think I'm still depressed. I think I'm still recovering from something. Something big and round like a jack o' lantern with really sharp teeth.

But the point is that I am no longer selling my book, for the most part, and also - HELLO, I am doing OK. Stop worrying so much. I am doing OK. And OK is the most beautiful thing I can think about right now.


Maybe we should all just look up and then write a poem about it. Whether the sky is tipping over or bubbling up, we should write about it. Let's go.

Devious Info

  • Current Residence: Desert.
  • Interests: Breathalyzer.
  • Favourite movie: As if the heart were not enough.
  • Favourite band or musician: Monsoon season.
  • Favourite artist: Windshield wipers.
  • Favourite photographer: Shutter snap and then goodbye.
  • MP3 player of choice: Anne Carson.
  • Skin of choice: Freckles behind your ears.
  • Favourite game: Bursting into flames.

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Comments


:iconcritmass:
things are still looking like mars rover images

--
its not too late to become what you were meant to be
:iconmistsofavalon4ever:
You're gallery is amazing!

--
We have a mouth to say words...we have eyes to show whether or not we mean them.

Life is like walking on a tight rope...your friends are your safety net.
:iconmelancholycufflinks:
Man, your hair inspires me. Not for poetry or anything. Just hair in general. Cool beans.

--
God, you say?
Now how strange.
In these circumstances, God's wrath still hasn't fallen upon me.
:iconcritmass:
111,100 pageviews

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its not too late to become what you were meant to be
:icontangled-up-in-blue:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH HA.

OK.

Here's the deal. I can be a real crazy full-of-myself jerk and I'm tired of poetry and I'm tired of art. I am caught in between gorgeousness that I couldn't even begin to communicate and I shouldn't base my life on regional music. I have ten fingers and I think about using them to swirl on soft cheeks at nighttime except if you try that with your fingers in the air right now it doesn't seem possible, it just seems like perversion...or something. AND BABY, I HATE ELLIPSES! I don't like that you are crunchy and I don't like sketchy bars. I don't like that I am a bragger sometimes but I can't help it when I feel like the ruler of the universe and I wear TLC shirts, not the television channel -- the Creeps, the Red Light Specialers. What's the word. What's the word. Have I told you I might move east? Have I told you I am caught between night and day and pinpoints and offs? Have I told you anything, have I told you I have been a philosopher, a one-day prayer to the gods, a goth, a journeyer to the center of the earth, a sex kitten, a hoverer above black holes, a black hole, a woman, a man, a child, an "adult," a bakery, an abandoned warehouse, a flowery forest nymph, a knife, a shriveled lung, a volcano, a three week mail-order half-Asian bride, and I still don't know. I am a champion of wrapping myself around shoulders into necks, being the person that everyone needs means overcoming vulnerabilities by embracing them and being them, I think. I can understand anything I choose to understand so I stopped reading and wear a lot of green and gold makeup and find myself in overly contrived situations instead. Come over, Mini Thanksgiving is on Friday. We're dressing up like Pilgrims and Native Americans and drinking champagne out of real glasses, not that plastic shit, and I think I will toast to that pregnant feeling inside the throat when almost touching a person for the first time. xxx
:iconvespera:
Got your book today, amazing :rose:

--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
:iconveo33:
I love your poems.

--
think about your troubles.
:iconvespera:
I finally got enough extra moneys to buy your book. You can now starve a little less :rose:

--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
:iconrhapsodomancy:
:heart:.

That is all I can say right now, for fear of spilling some insane nonsense-that-almost-makes-sense about how I swear you only need a pen to perfectly open the human heart.

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