literature

Caramel woman.

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Published: Oct 19, 2006

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Literature Text

_{It's about how heat, flash, ink n'blood mix..
About our lives, our nonsense trip to an unreachable comprehension of how things work.

How wolves stride through our flesh wounds and white feathers spread through our hearts...
but, we keep saying to ourselves, death is no end to its opposite sister.
Coal on the walls, as burnt wishes, as filthy words,
my schizophrenic self invented it, this. Not a ghost, nor a wish.

My heart's dead, your heart's bread...
this ego is like a caramel for you, my lovable I.
So let's write a fairy tale of how classicism is good.

(And children have no bed to sleep in, so God, build them a silver lined road to walk on.
Deliver us stars so we can hope. Turn us innocent, as were the fish before men.)

And we made a recipe. Your sunshining liver, my ghostly arts.
As a parade of abused souls, strollin' down our street, as prisioned coffins of childish meat.

And so much we gazed.. delightful show on our nicotine back seat.
And caramel woman, i like how voodoo works and how machines are built.
And bitch, i don't like boys, but still i understand i am one.

And how dull of me for liking coffee, and how it melts in hot water.
And i do like winter and cold and snow, even Christmas' lights,
and how your grandmother's cakes smelled like, on those haunted memories of ours.

But still, i don't know my ways, due to lack of maps. Stars are beauty, not directions..
And i get lost yet i smile, toothless, but i smile as if i were happy.
And i don't know why girl, but we're just ghosts dwellin' by this monotony of a place.

It's not perfect, never was. But driving at midnight was a rush.
And taking drugs while people dreamt, felt like a spring breeze... but,
our mothers are still the same my caramel, and we behave not as children,
not as salt, nor senseless, nor immature, nor as the world thinks we should.

We hold hands and kissed in old fashioned ways,
living the rest of our nocturnal session as a vintage blues show. We danced.
We played with snow, we hid in casinos, until our luck ran out.

And caramels are like brain cells.
They're a part of us, but we really don't acknowledge their presence.
And schizophrenia tells secrets to our minds. Sly devil, it is.
And caramels slept on a jar. Old like shit.

Pencil's broken. But i'll still imagine you. I have your smell kept in a box.}