PS
If anyone has ANY love of SmilingGoth.com you might REALLY want to start buying something.
I'm jobless, and it's costing me money I don't have to keep the site up and running. If you've enjoyed the show, then donate or buy something, please.
Click on the donations/tip button on the bottom of any of the site pages, or you can go get something for your money by clicking HERE.
Saturday, January 11, 2003
DREAMING FORBIDDEN COLORS...
Woke with the itch of broken crystal in my palms, burning like stigmata. After a few minutes of pushing myself to remember the dream I had had, I saw an image of a woman screaming on a bed. Her legs had been torn off and eaten, and her belly was ripped open and hollowed out, her insides also eaten. And still she screamed.
Another fragment of dream: broken crystal goblets. I was trying to fix them, and the broken crystal stuck into my palms like a partial crucifixion. I heard someone talking behind me, and I turned to see Nemesis lying naked on a huge bed. He was laughing at me for trying to fix everything that was broken, telling me that I was too caring, too forgiving.
"Humans were made for sacrifice," he says. He struggles with the chains that hold him to the bed. I tell him that he's just saying that so I'll release him.
Other people enter the room and stare at Nemesis, applauding me for catching and imprisoning him. I feel protective of him, and I want the people to go away, to stop staring at my creation. I realize that Nemesis is right, I DO try to fix everything, and I AM too caring and too forgiving, because the reason I have him chained to the bed is so I can fix him, heal him, and save the world from him at the same time... and to some extent, save HIM from the world.
The rest of the dream is just broken beyond repair. I remember only that I saw Andrew Eldritch (yes, from the Sisters of Mercy) singing "For Her Light" by the Fields of the Nephilim.
Watch now as I fling poetry at you:
And what becomes of the old factory senses?
Our old factory sense of smell
Mildewed and rotting in the basement of the subconscious
Talking Heads don't make much sense
Words of my thoughts written over my face
Words of feeling scrawling over my breasts and stomach like so many roaches
Once there was an artist
Swallowed by the works they'd created
Hands eaten by the mouths it fed
Swirling thoughts suspended in the smokey haze of Nag Champa and cool night of the air.
Happy Birthday, Tybalt.
Woke with the itch of broken crystal in my palms, burning like stigmata. After a few minutes of pushing myself to remember the dream I had had, I saw an image of a woman screaming on a bed. Her legs had been torn off and eaten, and her belly was ripped open and hollowed out, her insides also eaten. And still she screamed.
Another fragment of dream: broken crystal goblets. I was trying to fix them, and the broken crystal stuck into my palms like a partial crucifixion. I heard someone talking behind me, and I turned to see Nemesis lying naked on a huge bed. He was laughing at me for trying to fix everything that was broken, telling me that I was too caring, too forgiving.
"Humans were made for sacrifice," he says. He struggles with the chains that hold him to the bed. I tell him that he's just saying that so I'll release him.
Other people enter the room and stare at Nemesis, applauding me for catching and imprisoning him. I feel protective of him, and I want the people to go away, to stop staring at my creation. I realize that Nemesis is right, I DO try to fix everything, and I AM too caring and too forgiving, because the reason I have him chained to the bed is so I can fix him, heal him, and save the world from him at the same time... and to some extent, save HIM from the world.
The rest of the dream is just broken beyond repair. I remember only that I saw Andrew Eldritch (yes, from the Sisters of Mercy) singing "For Her Light" by the Fields of the Nephilim.
Watch now as I fling poetry at you:
And what becomes of the old factory senses?
Our old factory sense of smell
Mildewed and rotting in the basement of the subconscious
Talking Heads don't make much sense
Words of my thoughts written over my face
Words of feeling scrawling over my breasts and stomach like so many roaches
Once there was an artist
Swallowed by the works they'd created
Hands eaten by the mouths it fed
Swirling thoughts suspended in the smokey haze of Nag Champa and cool night of the air.
Happy Birthday, Tybalt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)