thought

"there are no words. only nothingness. deep dark beautiful nothingness."

macaframa

I love this film! It is based out of San Francisco and features a handful of talented riders, filmed and edited by two film students in the span of 3 years. Essentially, this movie slays. Packed with hill bombs, busting through traffic, and a bunch of tricks, the pace is kept incredibly well with various brief pans and time lapses of the city and a solid, mostly classic rock soundtrack. check it out!!!! These guys ride FAST

thoughts from last night

I've left my eyelashes on your windowsill.

My eyes burning in the middle of the night
Made me take them off.

Those nights, too drunk or high to drive home.
I would stay in your bed.

A peice of moon peeking out behind the old curtain.
Mine were always closed up tight,
Blinds and curtains.

Fears of being watched, invaded
By that which is not here.

Afraid to know-
Who are you?
What is on your eyes?

dream apartment

This is where I am supposed to live someday. my paradise in the sky :

blood and steam

Quiet deep melancholy

Hot drops of water course down my body

Sound blurs

In my head grinding- rock on rock.

 

Alone

On the page of this life

Blank staring up waiting for

Something to validate its existence.

 

Nothing but blurry ink

Dark questions

Self hate-

Wonderment at the way life grabs us up

Holds in a tight breath

 

Only to drop

Shattering glass into flesh

And dark scarlet

Swirling down the drain.

 

life

This blog is about my life and what I write. I don't think that I am super super interesting but it's my life and I like it. So therefore I share it. 

always,

Lindsey

untitled

Staring at channel 11-

footage of bomb dust flying

everywhere and bursts of orange.

buzzing of helicopters and tiny figures

making their exit.

And into the clouded mirror in front of her

at Darlene's Parlor.

"did you hear about so and so's daughter and that boy."

echoing in the background.

dizzying clouds of chemicals 

move around her head,

get caught in her throat.

nights of tv dinners,

sleeping in curlers-

their pins maddeningly

pushing into her scalp.

one afternoon she gets her husband's

rifle from under the bureau,

stands in the backyard

and shoots at birds as they fly by.

bed linens strung on the clothesline

whip in the wind

like little flags. 

Putting on her lipstick-

the bleeding scarlet paint of it

covers her mouth

and she watches them fall.

one after the other.